


The Dove With Razor Claws

by Lomonaaeren



Series: Wednesday One-Shots [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Half-Blood Prince AU, Hogwarts, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4156059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In sixth year, following the destruction of the Dark Lord and the Horcrux inside Harry, both Harry and Draco are trying to figure out who they really are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After the Thunder

**Author's Note:**

> This is for a request by bicrim, who asked for _your take on an old school, classic H/D. Think "Unthinkable Thoughts" by Aiden Lynch, that 2003-2005 era. School age, usually set in 5th or 6th year, just figuring out their sexualities, coming to realize that they can learn to not hate each other. Lots of teenage angst, good stuff_. This is AU because, admittedly, I couldn’t think of a way to do the same kind of story while acknowledging HBP. This will be a five-shot, updated every Wednesday.
> 
> Warnings for angst and internalized homophobia.

Draco walked slowly into the school, past the thestral-drawn carriages. He could have ridden in them. He knew that. All his friends—well, the ones other than Vince and Gregory, who had chosen to flee Britain with their fathers—were riding in them.  
  
But he wanted to walk alone, and think about how he could now see thestrals, and his father was in prison.   
  
He finally looked up and around at the familiar stone walls of Hogwarts. He thought the only thing that was really different was a lighter note in some of the chattering voices around him. He supposed people were glad that they didn’t have to worry about the Dark Lord and the war anymore.  
  
But Draco also noticed the little silence that followed him around; people stopped talking as he walked past. He tried to act like he  _didn’t_ notice. Before, the silence would have delighted him. It would have meant people were thinking about his father and his family, their money and what Draco could do to punish them.  
  
Instead, they were thinking about how his father had fallen from grace and his family didn’t have any power left. They still had the Manor and most of their money, because his mother had brought a lot from the Black family when she married his father and the Ministry couldn’t touch that when she hadn’t been involved in any wrongdoing. But they didn’t have the respect left.  
  
If they were Slytherins, they might be thinking about taking over the power in their House from Draco.  
  
Draco just ignored them as best he could, and walked over and sat down at the Slytherin table. He had a lot to think about, and power struggles in Slytherin weren’t the most important thing. For one thing, he had to decide if he was going to stay at Hogwarts at all.  
  
He honestly didn’t know why he had come back, except that the silence following him around was better than the dead silence of the Manor.  
  
He looked up when he heard a chuckle from the Gryffindor table across the way. It was Weasley, who eyed him like Draco had turned into pudding. Draco just turned to the side. He wasn’t interested in taunting Weasley, either.  
  
_Well, that’s at least one thing I’ve figured out I don’t want to do._  
  
*  
  
“Look at Malfoy! Someone took the prance out of  _his_ step, huh?”  
  
Harry shrugged, not sure what Ron wanted him to say. Harry still had…well, a lot on his mind. Two months weren’t really enough to get over Sirius’s death or Voldemort’s sudden defeat in the duel with Dumbledore.  
  
_After_ Voldemort had cast the Killing Curse at Harry, and Harry hadn’t died.   
  
Two months weren’t enough to get over the fact of having been some sort of bloody  _immortality anchor_  for Voldemort.  
  
Harry glanced once at the Head Table. Dumbledore wasn’t there yet. He had explained a little to Harry at the end of last year about Horcruxes, what they were and how he had started thinking that Voldemort had more than the diary. But he had said most of the explanation would have to wait for the school year.  
  
For the first time, Harry wasn’t sure that he  _wanted_ to hear more.  
  
“Harry? Are you okay?”  
  
That was Hermione. Harry smiled at her tiredly. He appreciated that Hermione wanted to make him feel better. Her letters had been one of the few things that cheered him up when he was living at the Dursleys’, sometimes staring at the walls for minutes at a time and then realizing what he was doing.  
  
But he couldn’t say that he was okay, and he didn’t know if he wanted her fussing over him right now. He offered a shrug, which made Hermione bite her lip, but then nod.  
  
“You know I’m right here if you need me,” she whispered, and sat back.   
  
Harry glanced across the Great Hall, noticing that several Slytherins were missing from their table. Well, that wasn’t really a surprise. A lot of people had fled Britain right after the battle. Harry supposed they thought it was for the best. And if his parents had fled, he would have wanted to go with them...  
  
He shook his head. He  _had_ gone with his parents into hiding, even if he didn’t remember any of it. And look how that had ended.  
  
Malfoy was sitting almost alone. He caught Harry’s eye and gave him the same sort of dull stare. Harry nodded to him, because why not? He supposed Malfoy could hate him, but all Harry had for him was oceans of indifference, the way he did for most people who weren’t sitting right beside him.  
  
“Harry! What are you  _doing_?”  
  
That was Ron. Harry shrugged at him, too, and sat back. Dumbledore had appeared at the Head Table, almost glowing with magic and happiness as he beamed at everyone. Harry relaxed. At least someone could be happy about the end of the war without acting like he was the one personally responsible.  
  
“Greetings, students!” Dumbledore swept his wand back and forth, and enormous piles of food appeared on all the plates. “Normally I would make announcements at this time, but joy does not need words. Eat hearty, and listen for announcements at breakfast tomorrow!”  
  
Some of the Gryffindors laughed. Harry managed a smile. He picked at some of the food on his plate, but there were unusual things he’d never seen before, and Hermione did coax him into trying some of the cheeses that were almost slumping off the plates and a bowl of light, fluffy balls of—something. Harry had no idea what they were, only that they tasted of citrus.  
  
He had almost finished the bowl when a small paper crane flew over to him. Harry stared at it, and then blinked and grabbed it. Unfolding it, he recognized Dumbledore’s handwriting.   
  
_Please come see me as soon as possible, Harry. I’m partial to Grinning Gobstones_.  
  
Harry nodded and glanced at the Head Table. Dumbledore had left without him even noticing. He stood up and with a mutter of “Dumbledore” at Ron and Hermione, left. Other people stared after him.  
  
Well, let them. It was none of their business.  
  
Harry was walking quietly along the corridor towards the gargoyle when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned around, and there was Malfoy, taking the same path. Malfoy only held up a paper crane by way of explanation.  
  
“The Headmaster wants to see me.” Malfoy’s words almost blurred, he was speaking them so fast. “He said—what’s this about Grinning Gobstones? What does it  _mean_? Is he going to tell me that I can’t—”  
  
Harry blinked, and wondered what Malfoy was going on about. But he said, “Dumbledore isn’t going to tell you that you can’t do anything. He wouldn’t have asked you to be here at the same time I was if he was going to tell you something like that.”  
  
That didn’t seem to have occurred to Malfoy. He relaxed with a blink and swatted his hair back behind his ears. “You really think so?”  
  
“Yes,” said Harry, as mildly as he could, and walked up to the gargoyle. He wanted to tell Malfoy that Dumbledore wasn’t the bullying sort of person and wouldn’t tell him something bad in front of Harry, but he didn’t think he could make the argument. He was tired of arguments.  
  
And Malfoy might see Dumbledore differently. He didn’t know.  
  
“Grinning Gobstones,” Harry told the gargoyle, which seemed to glare at Malfoy before it leaped aside. Malfoy gaped a little. Harry rode the staircase up with him in silence, and knocked on the door of the office with Malfoy behind him.   
  
“Ah, come in, boys.”  
  
_Right, not a mistake, then,_ Harry thought, as he opened the door and stepped in. He did hope that Dumbledore wasn’t going to talk about the Horcruxes in front of Malfoy, but again, he couldn’t think of a reason why Dumbledore would do that.  
  
*  
  
The Headmaster’s office was full of delicate, hanging crystals. Draco blinked at them. They dangled from the ceiling and the shelves and the perch that the man’s phoenix sat on. He had the impression they were new.  
  
From the way Potter’s eyes widened slightly, maybe they were. He sat down in one of the chairs in front of Dumbledore’s desk, though—the more comfortable one. Draco scowled and hurried into the other.  
  
Dumbledore clasped his hands in front of him and studied them both with twinkling eyes. Draco tried to brace himself. He  _wanted_ to believe Dumbledore wasn’t going to revoke his permission for Draco to attend Hogwarts, but maybe it was the sort of thing he would think was great fun to do in front of Harry Potter.  
  
“I called you here because you are both in some danger from the remaining Death Eaters,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Harry, for obvious reasons.” Potter just tilted his head, his fringe falling in front of his eyes. “But you, young Mr. Malfoy, because they consider that your father was a traitor and a failure, and they seem intent on making sure you pay the price for his crimes, since they cannot get at him in Azkaban.”  
  
Draco closed his eyes. He should have anticipated this, he told himself dully. Of course he should have. It was too easy for him to walk back into the Manor and listen to silence for the rest of the summer.  
  
“That means,” Dumbledore was saying when Draco opened his eyes and looked at him again, “that I must ask you both to tolerate the presence of guards whenever you are outside. The professors will be aloft on brooms all through your Quidditch games, watching you, and at least one will need to be outside during Quidditch practice. That is a duty we intend to rotate.” He beamed at both of them. “And expeditions into the Forbidden Forest are absolutely, well,  _forbidden_.” He chuckled.  
  
Draco wished he could muster up a smile. Potter had mustered up a protest. “What about Hogsmeade?”  
  
Dumbledore sighed softly. “I am afraid I will have to restrict you from moving around in the village, boys.”  
  
Draco stared at his hands, and nodded. He knew the village was watched and patrolled, but not enough. Not when you were talking about Death Eaters on the loose, which included some who were related to him.  
  
His Aunt Bellatrix had escaped the Department of Mysteries, after all.  
  
“And Care of Magical Creatures class?” Potter’s voice was subdued.  
  
“Oh, Hagrid has a new pet which should serve as a suitable guardian,” said Dumbledore, and leaned forwards as if about to confess a secret. “I find myself more than a little intimidated by it!”  
  
Draco shuddered.  _Wonderful_. He had been considering dropping the Magical Creatures class anyway, since he didn’t feel like being glared at by half the people in it, but this made it a certainty.  
  
“How long until the Ministry thinks it can capture the Death Eaters?” Potter asked abruptly  
  
“At least a few months, my boy,” said Dumbledore, and Draco almost smiled at the sudden tender tone in his voice. Dumbledore might call them both “boys,” but all he had to do was change it a little, and Draco knew who he  _really_ cared about. “I am sorry that you should have your freedom so restricted after suffering in the name of freeing our world, but I also do not wish to see you lose the  _life_ you fought so hard for.”  
  
Potter made a choking noise. Draco stared at him, and saw that his face had gone pale.  
  
_Wait. Potter is suicidal?_ It seemed absurd, but Draco couldn’t imagine a lot of reactions that would prompt Potter to go pale when someone was talking about him being alive.  
  
Dumbledore apparently could, because he said briskly, “So! Confine your movements to Hogwarts for the moment, and inform your professors of when you intend to practice Quidditch.” He clapped his hands briskly and stood up. “You should stay behind, Harry. You and I have much to talk about.”  
  
Draco knew a dismissal when he heard one. He stood up, vaguely disappointed. He didn’t want to be sent home from Hogwarts, of course not, but once again, he was just an afterthought to Potter.  
  
He glanced over his shoulder once before he left. Potter was sitting hunched, head hanging, on the edge of his chair cushion, and Dumbledore had let all the twinkle fade from his eyes. He looked almost as if he’d start lecturing.  
  
_Start lecturing him on how ridiculous he is to be that upset when my father is in prison for life and no one even bothered to care that I was in danger from Death Eaters until I came here,_ Draco thought, and abrupt passion flared in the center of his chest.  _He has to stay close to the castle for a few months, boo-hoo. While probably no one’s going to care much if_ I  _die, and they won’t care at all when I go home, if someone finds their way past the Manor’s protections_.  
  
Draco clenched his hands into fists as he rode the moving staircase down. His mother had talked to him often during the summer about how he had to be more adult, because outsiders mustn’t guess how much the Malfoy family had suffered from his father’s imprisonment.  
  
But Draco didn’t care about that right now. He wanted to prove that some things  _hadn’t_ changed, just the same way that the Headmaster favoring Potter hadn’t.  
  
_I’m going to make sure that Potter doesn’t spend the next few months getting to stare tragically at the wall and contemplate his horrible existence of being worshipped. He’s going to have other things to think about._  
  
Draco didn’t know what those things  _were_ yet. They had to be better than his plans to get Potter back in the past, which had never worked.  
  
But he would find something. And Potter would have to  _wake up._  
  
_He doesn’t get everything, while I get nothing._  
  
*  
  
“You have questions about Horcruxes, I know,” Dumbledore said softly. “And why I allowed Tom to cast a Killing Curse at you instead of moving you out of the way.”  
  
Yes, Harry had questions. And yes, part of the overwhelming misery he was walking around in came from the idea that the Headmaster didn’t care at all about his life, as opposed to what his death could do for the wizarding world.  
  
But he hardly wanted to ask the questions. It meant he would have to wake up. Pay attention.  
  
Do something other than drift.  
  
Now that he was here, though, he knew Dumbledore wouldn’t just let him walk away. So he looked at Dumbledore under his fringe and asked simply, “Why?”  
  
Dumbledore nodded gently, his eyes distant and wise. “Because you were an accidental Horcrux, and the part of Tom’s soul that attached to you—the night your parents died—was not prepared in the same way as all the other Horcruxes were. Those required deliberate murder and the preparation of a valued object. Dark rituals, as well. Some things I think you have no desire to know.”  
  
Harry shook his head at once. He didn’t particularly care to hear how Tom Riddle’s diary had come to be, and he  _especially_ didn’t want to hear about what he would have been like if he—  
  
Bile crept up his throat. He swallowed it down.  
  
Dumbledore nodded. “Well. Those objects that became Horcruxes were utterly corrupted by the bits of soul in them. They served Voldemort’s will. Much as the memory of Tom Riddle was still trying to unleash the basilisk on the school, for instance.  
  
“But  _you_ , my dear boy.” And Harry could hardly bear the appreciation and love in Dumbledore’s eyes, so he ended up staring at his hands instead. “Because of your strength of will, because of the accidental nature of the Horcrux you became, and because, I also think, of your opposition to Voldemort from the moment you became aware of him, you never served his will. The shard of soul was separate from your own, and destroying it could not destroy you, the way that the destruction of every other Horcrux also ruptured its vessel—”  
  
“You found them and destroyed them all, sir, right?” Harry interrupted. He was suddenly shivering uncontrollably. “You couldn’t have missed one—”  
  
“No,” said Dumbledore gently. “Tom’s reaction, the way he fell unconscious when his Killing Curse destroyed the shard of soul embedded in you, proves that. He had not reacted in such a way to the destruction of any other Horcrux. You were the last one, and the shock of suddenly losing his immortality powered that reaction.”  
  
Harry swallowed and nodded. The shivering fit was gone. “Sir,” he said, and the question that had haunted him came out of his mouth without him willing it, “why did it have to be  _him?_ Why couldn’t you just have done something to get the shard of soul out of me yourself?”  
  
Dumbledore sighed deeply. “My dear boy. It is possible that I could have.”  
  
_Possible._ In that word, Harry thought he read the answer, and he would have been content to have Dumbledore shut up and let the question go.  
  
But Dumbledore was still talking. “I didn’t know for sure. I only knew that, from the mechanics of Horcruxes as I understood them, and from your mother’s protection and love, you possibly had a chance at life if Tom was the one to cast the Killing Curse at you. And it  _had_ to be the Killing Curse. The first spell that you survived, that you  _only_ survived thanks to Lily’s sacrifice.”  
  
“I understand,” Harry whispered. Maybe Dumbledore could have done it with a different spell, but he hadn’t wanted to take the chance. And there was also, always, the  _possibility_ that Dumbledore couldn’t find it in himself to cast the Killing Curse.  
  
_You have to mean them!_  shrieked Bellatrix’s voice in the back of his head.  
  
Harry scratched at his scar, although it hadn’t hurt since the moment when Voldemort had fallen to Dumbledore’s spell, a golden spell that seemed to wrap around him and just pick him up and drop him dead. It was habit, though.  
  
“Now, Harry, another thing.”  
  
Harry tensed, but kept his head bowed. He wondered if Dumbledore was going to talk about Harry’s feelings on being a Horcrux, and if Harry wanted him to.  
  
“I am afraid you will have to return to the Dursleys the next summer as well.”  
  
Harry felt as though all the ash covering his emotions had blown away, and revealed the explosion waiting underneath it. He lifted his head, and Dumbledore fell silent and blinked at him. It was something Harry had never seen before.  
  
“You might have wanted me to return there this summer because of Death Eaters,” he whispered. “But you said they’d be caught in a few months. You  _said_.”  
  
“The Ministry hopes they will be, of course.” Dumbledore was frowning slightly. “But they can’t be sure, and—”  
  
“And,” Harry continued, his voice soaring in spite of himself, “they’ll be caught then. And I’ll be of age next July. You can’t send me back there. You  _can’t_.”  
  
“Harry, it will only be for a few weeks. You need the extra protection that your mother’s blood provides.”  
  
“They starve me,” said Harry without preamble. “My cousin beat me up  _every day_ when we were younger. I slept in a  _cupboard_. They made me stay there until I was eleven, and then they only changed things because they thought you were watching!” He stood up. “But you weren’t watching, were you? You didn’t care!”  
  
“Harry,” Dumbledore whispered. His face was white with—shock? Harry didn’t know. But he was bitterly glad to see it.  
  
“I only stayed there this past summer because I needed to think about things away from the wizarding world,” Harry snarled at him. “I would have moved out in a hot second if Sirius was still alive. And if I could have  _made_ myself. Now, I will. I’m never going back there again.  _Never._ ”  
  
“I had no idea,” Dumbledore whispered.  
  
Harry shook his head, refusing the disclaimer. “You had to have some idea. When you knew they hated magic, when you saw how thin I was, when you said that you knew you were condemning me to ‘ten dark and difficult years.’” He still remembered those words from the talk that Dumbledore had given him in his office after Voldemort’s death, at the same time he told Harry about the prophecy and Horcruxes. “And  _I don’t care_. I’ll run away, if I have to and the Death Eaters are still after me. I’ll disappear. But I am never staying with my aunt and uncle again. Never, never, never.”  
  
Dumbledore shut his eyes. “I’m sorry, my boy,” he whispered.  
  
_He didn’t actually say what he’s sorry for,_ Harry thought cynically.  _Whether it’s for sending me there in the first place or deciding that he’s going to make me go back._  
  
“Yeah,” he said. “Of course you are.” And he turned and left Dumbledore’s office without looking back.  
  
His heart burned in him like an ember as he went down the stairs. He knew Ron and Hermione had been worried about him, discussing if he was still in a state of shock over Sirius’s death, whether they should do something about it.   
  
_Well, I’m back now. And I’m going to_ live.  _No Death Eaters are going to keep me from doing that. No Voldemort_.  
  
_And no Dumbledore, either._


	2. Into the Storm

Draco had considered several possible plans by the next morning, and discarded them all. He didn’t think he could create a scenario where one of Potter’s friends was in danger and Potter charged in to rescue them, only they weren’t really in danger and so he looked like a fool. A plan that you couldn’t come up with any way to implement was as useless as a stupid one.  
  
Draco had learned that this summer, at least.  
  
He swallowed and glared across the House tables at Potter. He was sitting at the Gryffindor table and not so much chewing his food as champing it, while staring off into space. Something had happened to displease him, Draco supposed.   
  
Draco swallowed in pleasure and then contemplated Potter’s face and Weasley, beside him. A second later, he had it.  
  
Potter was still going out for the Quidditch team this year, of course. And some of Draco’s Housemates had stopped pretending he didn’t exist yesterday to tell him that they still expected him on the pitch as Seeker. It was because they didn’t have anyone better.  
  
Draco  _knew_ that. He had sat there simmering after the conversation anyway.  
  
Now, though, it was going to work for him. Especially since he doubted Potter would be able to turn down a challenge to a race that Draco offered him in front of his friends. And because he thought Draco still had a bad broom compared to his, he would think he’d win easily.  
  
Draco smiled a little. He had read a lot about spells over the summer, not having anything else to do. And he had learned about some spells that were banned from Quidditch.  
  
They had been banned for so long that most Quidditch players didn’t even look for them anymore, and the enchantments placed on pitches that were supposed to protect against their use weren’t popular or often cast. Draco doubted the enchantments on the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch would still be active or renewed after this long.  
  
After all, the professors had had other things to do in the past year.  
  
Draco leaned back on the bench and sipped some cool water, never taking his gaze off Potter. He heard whispering next to him that he ignored. People who might think he was as obsessed with Potter as usual were welcome to go on thinking that.  
  
It was all part of his disguise.  
  
*  
  
“Malfoy was watching you all morning, mate.”  
  
Harry shrugged a little as he stepped out onto the Quidditch pitch. He was carrying his Firebolt over one shoulder, and the air around him was full of soft smells and an even softer feeling that probably came from the rain earlier this afternoon. What mattered was that he could fly. “Well, he was in the office with Dumbledore at the same time I was.”  
  
He locked his legs around the broom and kicked off from the ground, ignoring Ron’s earnest attempt to tell him something else. He was outside now, and he was just going to  _fly_.  
  
He did, zooming around and turning sharp corners. His scar felt burned with the wind that swept along it, but at least it wasn’t burning now because Voldemort was alive and  _making_ it burn.  
  
 _Was I really part of him? Part of something so evil that it killed my parents and threatened the whole wizarding world?_  
  
Harry shook his head sharply. He wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life worrying about it. Maybe if Dumbledore had told him earlier and let Harry work with him, then it would be worth worrying about. But he  _hadn’t_ known, and he wasn’t going to go back and consider everything he’d done and wonder if it was somehow secretly evil.  
  
“Mate!” Ron finally yelled, catching up with him. His broom wasn’t as fast as the Firebolt, but Harry had slowed down to mop at some of the sweat on his forehead.  
  
“What?” Harry snapped back, and then saw two things. The first was Snape strolling out into the middle of the pitch with a broom over his shoulder. Harry almost groaned. Of  _course_ Snape was going to be his first guardian on Quidditch practice, because he looked forward to any chance to ruin Harry’s life.   
  
The second was Malfoy marching behind Snape. He looked up and fixed his eyes on Harry’s. Then he gave him a nasty smile.  
  
Harry wanted to swear. Why was Malfoy  _doing_ this? If anything, he should want to get along with Harry, because they were subject to the same restrictions. So they would probably be in the same detention or something sooner or later.  
  
He muttered about it under his breath, and Ron shook his head wisely. “Slytherins, mate. If they’re unhappy, they want to make someone else unhappy even if it’s for a stupid reason.”  
  
Harry sighed. He wanted to think that wasn’t true, because some Slytherins had been pretty friendly to him in class today. On the other hand, they might just have decided that it was a good idea to be Harry’s friend right now. “Let’s go down and see what Snape wants.”  
  
Ron grunted agreement, and they flew down and landed. Harry made sure to keep in between Malfoy and Ron. He thought Malfoy was probably there to make trouble for Harry himself, but Malfoy would fight with Ron if he could possibly come up with a reason for it. “Are you the designated guardian, sir?” Harry asked Snape.  
  
Snape sneered at him. “I am  _designated,_ yes, Potter. I would hardly have volunteered for this duty.”  
  
 _You might have if there was a chance of getting me in trouble._ But Harry didn’t say that, either. Hermione had told him he should be more mature. Dumbledore had told Harry about some of the things Snape had risked during the past year.  
  
Really a lot of it, though, was that Harry was just tired of playing out the same fights with Snape over and over again, and he was going to have enough of them now that Snape was teaching Defense.  
  
So he ignored the way Snape was talking and nodded to Malfoy, then turned around again. He wanted to get back into the air and start the actual practice. Snape being Snape, he would make a sarcastic remark about Harry just wanting to fly around sooner or later.  
  
“Wait, Potter.”  
  
That was Malfoy, and not Snape, surprisingly. Harry turned around with a sense of tired inevitably. No matter what Malfoy said or did, Snape would be in favor of it. “What do you want, Malfoy?”  
  
“Is that a way to speak to a fellow student, Potter?” Snape murmured, right on cue. “I think you could stand to ask more politely.”  
  
Harry just ignored him utterly, this time. He was interested to see that Malfoy did much the same thing; in fact, his face flamed for a second. Then he took a step forwards and announced loudly, “I challenge you to a Seekers’ race around the Quidditch pitch.”  
  
Snape didn’t have anything to say about that, of course. Harry had never heard of a Seekers’ race, though, but he assumed it must be a real thing, or Ron would have been bellowing about violations of the rules. He only considered it for a second, then shrugged and asked, “Will we chase the Snitch?”  
  
“No,” said Malfoy, and his smile was the kind of sneer Harry had seen on him last year when he was being part of Umbridge’s little Inquisitorial Squad. It made Harry want to knock his teeth in for old times’ sake. “Just race each other.”  
  
“Yeah, mate,” Ron muttered beside him. “I’d do it. You know he can’t win!”  
  
Harry supposed he either had too much sense of fair play or an utter inability to hide his emotions, because he looked at Malfoy’s broom and raised his eyebrows.  
  
Malfoy laughed in a way that might have convinced people who had grown up in the wilderness and never heard human laughter. “Don’t worry about that, Potter. We have some…equalities that you don’t know about.”  
  
“Of course you do,” Snape interjected then. “Such as Mr. Potter’s stubbornness being equal to your talent in Potions, Mr. Malfoy.”  
  
Harry ignored that again, thinking it was a weak insult. Malfoy must have thought the same thing, because his eyebrow twitched a little, but he kept looking at Harry. Now it was the way he had looked at Harry in the Dueling Club, and Harry felt his blood heating up the way it had in Dumbledore’s office last night. It would be stupid of him to back down now.   
  
He would tell Hermione the same thing if she was out here and telling him not to get in trouble, but she wasn’t.  
  
“A race,” Malfoy whispered. “Six times around the Quidditch pitch should do it, I think. Enough to allow me to show off  _real_ skill and not be overcome by a minor discrepancy in the brooms.” He moved a step forwards . “Of course, if you’re worried about what that test is going to show, then—”  
  
“Not at all,” said Harry, and he was pleased to see Malfoy fall back a little and stare at him as if he hadn’t thought that was what Harry was going to say. “I assume we’re starting the race now?” He looked at Snape for a second, and then hopped onto his broom when he saw Malfoy had already done the same.  
  
“I will be timing the race,” said Snape. He looked as though he expected Malfoy to win, which only made Harry all the more determined that it was going to be him. He looked into the sky, and nodded. There were some low clouds, but no threatening rain.  
  
“Whatever you want, sir,” Harry said, and Snape looked disgruntled in turn before he mounted his broom somewhat awkwardly and soared into the sky. Harry watched Malfoy from the corner of his eye for a second as Malfoy waited, trying to look poised. Harry dearly wanted to tell him that he only looked constipated instead, but he doubted he would be able to get away with it when Snape was right there.  
  
“ _Go_ ,” Snape said.  
  
Harry was aloft in seconds, surging in a way that seemed to catch Malfoy by surprise. Harry bit his lip so he didn’t laugh, and kept flying, bent over his broom. He didn’t need to look behind him, because he knew Malfoy would be there.  
  
*  
  
Draco tried to suppress his bitter indignation when he realized Potter was ahead of him. That was the way he  _wanted_ it, he reminded himself. Potter would speed up and get so far ahead of him that he would be confident and not watching.  
  
And meanwhile, Draco had already drawn his wand, even though he was keeping it low down at his side. If someone saw it before he could cast the spell on Potter and they were all distracted by its effects, then he would be punished.  
  
Draco didn’t want that. He wanted something to be normal and different at the same time. He would be fighting Potter, which was usual, but he would also be  _defeating_ him, which was the different thing.  
  
Draco smiled at the thought, and then concentrated hard on the spell he had looked up last night, to make sure he remembered the incantation right. He twisted his wand in a swift spiral, whispering, “ _Ungula accipitris_.”  
  
There was a long shudder as the magic passed through him. Draco blinked. He hadn’t expected that. The magic wasn’t Dark Arts, so casting it should have just felt like casting an ordinary spell.  
  
But anyway, the magic sped out from him and crashed into Potter’s broom, but it was an invisible wave of force. Anyone else could only see it by what happened, and Draco wanted to cheer as he watched it work perfectly. Several of the important bristles flew away from the tail of Potter’s broom, as though cut by a hawk’s talon, the literal translation of the spell.  
  
Potter’s Firebolt whirled and spun, and then made a beeline towards the ground. Draco laughed aloud. Then he tried to look properly shocked.  
  
It had worked, though. Potter was losing both height and speed, and all the other people on brooms or the ground were yelling about the spectacle. No one was paying attention to Draco. He could go ahead and finish the race.  
  
Draco was just starting to turn in the direction he would need to round the end of the pitch when he realized something. Potter was steering his broom so it soared directly at Draco’s, and he was wobbling furiously as he did so. He would probably crash straight into Draco and send both of them plummeting to the ground.  
  
Draco had a moment to stare, and then another moment to plan. But unlike Potter, he was in control of his broom. That meant he could do whatever he wanted, and Potter would have to continue dropping down.  
  
Draco turned slightly to the side, then more widely. Potter was still coming, and maybe his angle wasn’t what Draco had thought it was at first, and that meant—  
  
But then Potter’s broom turned over, and Potter crashed full-on into Draco’s Nimbus, which promptly tried to buck Draco off. Draco yelped and grabbed hold of it. His thoughts skittered through his mind, thoughts like  _It’s not bloody fair, even my own broom likes Potter better than me_.  
  
Neither of them fell, though, Draco probably because he had a death grip on the broom shaft, and Potter because he had a death grip on Draco. Draco kicked at the legs wrapped around his legs, but he couldn’t do much about them. If he was seen visibly wrenching Potter off him, then no one was going to believe this was an accident.   
  
“Stop kicking and flailing, Malfoy! I can steer this broom if you’ll just—”  
  
At least Potter was breathless, in the middle of being as arrogant as ever. Draco kicked at him again, for good measure, and snapped back, “You need to get behind me, or we’ll fall—”  
  
“I know more about flying than you do!”  
  
“Not on a Nimbus, not when your bloody Firebolt—”  
  
“Which you cursed somehow, you—”  
  
Draco had lost track of the broom’s flight, but when he heard people shrieking below, he looked again. They had dropped much lower, and now they were probably only three broom-lengths up from the pitch. Professor Snape was flying towards them as fast as he could, but he had never been that fast or graceful on a broom, and the one he was riding wasn’t even a Nimbus.  
  
“Pull  _back_ , Malfoy!” Potter screeched suddenly into his ear, and Draco saw the pole off to the side that held the Keeper’s hoop.  
  
It was too late, though, and they crashed into the side of it, Draco swearing as he felt the pole slam him in the ribs. Potter was silent, except for a grunt. Draco sneered as they both began to fall. Bloody hero about even expressing pain.  
  
But then Potter whipped his wand out, and muttered something that sounded like, “ _Aranea_.”  
  
They crashed into something that bounced and then bent beneath them instead of dropping them straight to the ground. Draco grunted and leaned his head back. Yes, there were sticky strands clinging to his hair. Potter had conjured a  _spiderweb,_ of all the dirty and unnecessary spells he could have done.  
  
They were going to live.  
  
Draco whipped around to give Potter a piece of his mind. Potter was right beside him in the web’s net, being forced lower and lower, and he was bending near as if he also wanted to yell at Draco, or shake a finger in his face in righteous Gryffindor rage.  
  
And Draco hadn’t planned on this—  
  
Well, he hadn’t planned on so many things, including Potter crashing into him, and them crashing into the pole, and losing the race, and Potter being the one to have to save Draco’s life—  
  
But he  _especially_ hadn’t planned on their faces being forced so close by the bending angle of the web that his lips became planted on Potter’s.  
  
There was a long moment when Draco was too frozen by the beat of his own heart to do anything but hold still in shock. And then Potter was flailing around to get loose, but his arms were snared by his own web when he moved them, and then he  _couldn’t_ move them, and Draco reared back, but the web behind him wouldn’t tear or yield.  
  
They weren’t kissing. Not really. Because a second later, their lips popped apart, and Draco was wiping his mouth and swearing loudly, and Potter, who could turn his head enough to get his lips against his shoulder, was wiping them over and over on his shirt with a silent deadliness that was even stronger than the glare he threw Draco’s way a second later.  
  
So it wasn’t really a kiss. And none of Draco’s friends were on the pitch, so there was no one who would torment Draco about it anyway. And  _Potter’s_ friends were probably desperate to get him out of this situation and help him forget all about it, anyway.  
  
The web touched the ground. Neither of them could move, though, until Professor Snape came over and flicked his wand and severed the web, saying coolly, “You appear to have lived, although not without some regrettable consequences of your  _stupidity_.”  
  
The way that he seized Draco’s shoulder at the same moment as he pronounced that word made Draco stare upwards with a sinking feeling in his stomach. And yes, the professor was glaring at him.   
  
Oh, shit. Oh,  _shit_. Snape had seen his spell, or somehow knew exactly what he had done. Maybe it was just that he was smart enough to think that if something went wrong with Potter’s broom in Draco’s vicinity, it must be Draco’s fault.  
  
Draco cowered a little.  
  
“Get off the field,” said Professor Snape, and turned and looked at Potter and the rest of the Gryffindors in a way that made Draco envious even though he was in the midst of so much trouble, because he wished  _he_ could glare like that at people and have it stick. “If I hear that you’ve been near the outer boundaries of the wards again, Potter, then you and I are going to have a  _talk_.”  
  
Potter lowered his eyelids and said nothing, just turning away with Weasley’s arm over his shoulder. But he did give Draco a glare that rivaled Snape’s as he turned.  
  
Professor Snape turned back to Draco, and the glare was even worse when he didn’t have members of his rival House on the field to share it. Draco huddled with his arms over his head for a second. Professor Snape said nothing, but his contempt was a silent, withering flame. Draco finally lowered his arms and looked up again.  
  
“You did something stupid and dangerous for the sake of a  _prank_ ,” Professor Snape whispered. “Tell me you have not become an honorary Gryffindor.”  
  
“It wasn’t a prank!” Draco protested, astonished that his Head of House would see it like that. “I was trying to beat Potter! It’s no different from a move during a Quidditch game—”  
  
“This was not a game.” Professor Snape moved towards him swiftly enough that Draco cowered again, and then grabbed him under the arm and hauled him to his feet. “If I hear that you have done something against Potter again, I shall make you sorry you crossed me.”  
  
Draco stared at him in apprehension, his mind full of everything from going to Dumbledore to writing to his mother.  
  
Professor Snape’s mouth crooked. “I shall tell your Housemates about the  _kiss_ you shared with Potter. And I shall tell them that you  _enjoyed_ it.”  
  
Draco gasped aloud and shook his head. “You can’t—that wasn’t—it wasn’t a  _kiss_ , damn it!”  
  
“Language,” said Professor Snape without turning a hair. In fact, the crook of his mouth had turned into the kind of full-fledged sneer that Draco usually only saw when he got a chance to humiliate Potter or Longbottom. “There will be no acceptance of the, ah,  _mitigating circumstances_ if it is my word against yours. And it will be, if you do something so stupid again, Mr. Malfoy.” He released Draco with a light push.  
  
“I don’t understand,” Draco said, through numb lips. Well, lips that were numb and something else. “Don’t you want to see Potter humiliated?”  
  
Professor Snape gave him a glare that would have done a basilisk proud. “In this political climate? At this stage of the world? And I thought it was only your behavior that was stupid.”  
  
Draco swallowed and looked away. Yes, he supposed that could be a problem. But then again, no one should have noticed, which meant he would have got away with it, and Professor Snape’s scolding would have been stupid anyway.  
  
He couldn’t help one more protest, though. “If it’s stupid to humiliate Potter, then how will spreading the story around be a good idea?”  
  
“Oh,” said Professor Snape, and drew the word out until Draco thought he had a whole new reason to hate him. “But I would hardly announce that  _Potter_ had enjoyed it.”  
  
Then he dragged Draco towards the castle until he was inside the entrance hall, and turned away.  
  
Draco closed his eyes and sat there until the lingering disgust of the cobwebs in his hair outweighed the humiliation he might receive from the Gryffindors if he went back inside. Then he stood up and Summoned his broom, swatting ineffectually at his hair all the while.  
  
He wasn’t looking forward to what the Gryffindors might say. He wasn’t looking forward to Professor Snape’s stony, knowing stare the next day in Defense.  
  
But more than all that, he wasn’t looking forward to what Potter would say when they saw each other again.  
  
*  
  
“So what was kissing Malfoy like?”  
  
Harry gritted his teeth. For some reason, Ron had decided both that he was hilarious, despite lots of evidence to the contrary in George and Fred being the only funny Weasleys, and that teasing Harry about his “kiss” with Malfoy was hilarious.  
  
“Wet,” Harry snapped, and then stooped down and picked up his towel. He was going to shower, and try to get the sensation of Malfoy off his lips and hands.  
  
Ron stopped laughing. Harry glared at him, frowning, and found Ron staring at him as if Harry had killed his Pygmy Puff.  
  
“What?” Harry added.  
  
“That’s the same thing you said about the kiss with Cho,” Ron mumbled.  
  
Harry threw up his hands. “So I’m no good with description! And the  _thing_ I had with Malfoy was coincidence, okay, and the web forcing us together! And excuse me if I’m still  _recovering_ from learning that I had part of some madman’s soul inside me, okay?” He stormed off into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him, ignoring Ron’s protests and what might have been an apology.  
  
Once he was safely in the privacy of the shower, Harry shut his eyes and leaned his forehead against the wall.  
  
 _Damn it. Damn it. Damn it_. The same hollow words boomed and beat again and again in his head.  
  
Because the kiss with Malfoy had been more like a real  _kiss_ , more like what Harry thought one ought to be, than the one with Cho. Shocking. Surprising. Making Harry want to leap forwards and—and do things.  
  
And the press of his lower body against Malfoy’s had been exciting, too.  
  
 _It’s the web, just the web,_ Harry told himself savagely, and twisted the faucet to bring water roaring down on his head. 


	3. Lightning Strikes Twice

Harry stared at the note that the post-owl had delivered. He had thought it would maybe be from Malfoy, or Snape, threatening him with dire consequences if he said anything about last night. Harry would  _never_ say anything about last night, and he thought he could trust other Gryffindors the same way, but that wouldn’t occur to Snape, who only lived to see Harry get into trouble.  
  
But the note was from Dumbledore, and said,  _I was distressed to note that you were near the outside wards yesterday, Harry._  
  
Harry ripped it into halves. Then he ripped the halves into quarters. Then he ripped the quarters into eighths. Then he went on ripping until the paper looked like flakes of salt, and he would have set it on fire, except that he thought he would get in trouble for using a spell like _Incendio_  at the breakfast table.  
  
“What’s wrong?” That was Hermione, low-voiced, leaning in towards him. Harry only shook his head savagely at her. Hermione thought he should try to get along better with Dumbledore, and Harry had begged Ron not to tell her about the “kiss” between him and Malfoy. Hermione would encourage him to use it as a sign of peace or something.  
  
“Nothing much,” Harry said, and gave her a grimace that he suspected didn’t convince her, a second before he speared a bite of cheese and brought it to his mouth. “An annoying note bringing up something I didn’t want to hear about.”  
  
He took the chance to glare across the room at the Slytherin table. Malfoy appeared to be paler than usual, and barely plucked at his breakfast.  
  
Then Harry yanked his head away, feeling his cheeks flare. He’d actually noted how  _pale_ Malfoy usually was? How gay was that? He shook his head, and clenched one hand on the table in front of him.  
  
He hated this. He hated the idea that he’d found a kiss with Malfoy hotter than the one he’d had with Cho.  
  
It was probably, Harry decided abruptly, because he’d only had that one awful kiss with a girl. He had to get another girl to kiss him, and then  _that_ would be the good one he compared every other kiss to in his mind.  
  
He looked up and down the Gryffindor table, because Gryffindors were the only ones he could trust for an experiment like this. He would have asked Ginny, but she was dating Dean. And he thought Parvati had a boyfriend, too, and as for Hermione—  
  
Harry filled his mouth even more with cornflakes at the thought of kissing Hermione. She would probably only agree to it out of pity, and wouldn’t  _that_ be horrible? And Ron would never forgive him. Harry hated that thought even more than he hated the thought that he’d found Malfoy’s kiss hot.  
  
No, the only possible choice was Lavender. She didn’t have a boyfriend, and even though she was silly, at least she was a  _girl_. And Harry hadn’t missed the hopeful glances she sometimes gave him yesterday, or the way she’d tried to sit with him in Charms until Ron and Hermione thoughtlessly took the seats on either side of him, as usual.   
  
No. He would ask her out and see what happened. He gave her a smile now, and Lavender hid her mouth behind one hand, giggling, before she began to whisper to Parvati.  
  
 _Her giggle doesn’t sound as annoying when she’s hiding it,_ Harry decided hopefully. And he didn’t think she would try to whisper with  _him_. He hadn’t seen her do that even when she was talking to a boy.  
  
He got up. He wanted to talk to Lavender before classes started, and no time like the present.  
  
*  
  
No one was pointing and snickering at Draco in the corridors, which meant no one had told anyone else about his “kiss” with Potter. No, they just continued to go silent and avoid Draco like usual.  
  
But honestly, Draco was almost used to that by now.  
  
He had just arrived at the door of their NEWT Potions class when he heard voices from further down the corridor, though. And one of them sounded like Potter’s, and it sounded like he was on the verge of laughter.  
  
Draco turned towards the sound at once. Sure, perhaps Potter hadn’t told anyone about the kiss to humiliate Draco  _so far,_ but that could be changing right this second.  
  
Potter was leaning against the wall, and leaning over a girl that Draco took a moment to recognize. Lavender Brown, also a sixth-year Gryffindor. Utterly insignificant, of course. The only Gryffindors that Draco took the time to recognize were the ones distinguished by academic or magical prestige, and as much as he hated to admit it, that included Potter and Granger. Not Brown, though. Her marks were middling and her magic weak.  
  
Brown giggled as though she was trying for a NEWT in it, her arms folded and her head ducked as she peered up at Potter from beneath her eyelashes. Potter had a look of disdain in the crinkles of his eyes that Brown should have recognized. Hell,  _Draco_ could, and he barely paid attention to Potter!  
  
“You’d like to go with me to Hogsmeade next time we have a weekend, then?” Potter’s voice was so soft and intimate that Draco almost lost the words in the storm of Brown’s giggles.  
  
“Oh,  _yes,_ Harry,” said Brown, and reached up with what she probably thought was a sultry expression on her face to draw Potter’s head down. “But you were asking about kissing me. You don’t have to wait until then to kiss me. Didn’t you know?”   
  
Potter froze. Draco could tell that, too. He thought Brown would notice any moment and release Potter with some kind of an offended remark. She would probably only want someone who wanted her back, right? That was what  _sensible_ people did.  
  
Then Potter seemed to recover, and nodded eagerly. “Right, Lavender. I want to know what it’s like to kiss you.” His eyes rested on her lips in a way that made it seem as if he was trying for his own fake sultry expression.  
  
“Call me Lav,” Brown breathed, and then their lips touched.  
  
Draco couldn’t stand here and watch this. And it had nothing to do with decency or standards. If Potter and Brown had standards of any sort, they wouldn’t be snogging in the corridors. Hell, if Potter had standards, he would have chosen someone besides Brown in the first place. Granger was the only Gryffindor girl worth anything.  
  
He cleared his throat, and watched in pleasure as Potter and Brown shot apart like someone had cast a Mutual Repulsion Charm on them. Draco stepped closer and said in a concerned-sounding voice, “Really, Potter, don’t you have somewhere to be? You’re not good enough at Potions to be late to it.”  
  
The glare Potter gave him was absolutely sparking murderous, but Draco realized, with a light-headed feeling, that he didn’t care. There were Death Eaters after him, and probably some of the Slytherin students whose families wanted them to take the top place in their House. Draco had  _real_ problems.  
  
He didn’t have to give a—a  _fuck_ about Potter, if he didn’t want to.  
  
Potter clenched his hands and took a step forwards. “If you try to get Lavender in trouble, Malfoy—”  
  
“I said nothing about Brown being in trouble,” Draco interrupted, and this time, the boredom imitation in his voice was perfect. “I said something about  _you_ being in trouble, if you’re late for class, especially given how hard you already have to work to catch up.” And he turned around and walked back to the classroom door.  
  
He could hear Potter saying something to Brown. He had no idea what, but he knew Brown wouldn’t follow them around the corner. She wasn’t in NEWT Potions.  
  
 _For that matter, how did Potter get in?_  
  
Draco was revolving that intriguing idea in his head when Potter burst around the corner, seized Draco by the collar of his robe, and crammed him against the wall. In the small, hot space that had suddenly formed between them, Draco could hear and feel every one of Potter’s breaths.  
  
“What the hell do you think you’re  _doing_ , Malfoy?” Potter barked at him. “Do you always spy on people snogging? Jealous because you can’t get any unless you steal it from other people?”  
  
Draco felt the light-headedness change to light-headed rage, and Snape’s warnings flew away. He leaned in and murmured, “Interrupting something you clearly weren’t enjoying, Potter. Because we all knew who set the standard for a  _real_ kiss for you, don’t we?” He fluttered his eyelashes at Potter.  
  
Potter let him go as though burned. Draco straightened slowly up, watching as Potter shook his hands and clasped them and rubbed them as though trying to get sweat off. Draco had no idea what  _that_ meant, but he found he didn’t care.  
  
Here was something that bothered Potter, and would certainly get his attention. Draco’s plan might not have worked out the way he’d wanted it to, but it had done something.  
  
Draco gave Potter another flirtatious smile and moved a step forwards. Potter retreated in high disgust, fluttering his hands.  
  
“Careful,” Draco whispered. “Someone might look at the way you act around me and come to the right conclusions.”  
  
Draco thought he had never seen anything as delicious as the way Potter was spluttering and flailing around. But he didn’t get to have more fun, because then, unfortunately, Professor Slughorn arrived, musing aloud to himself as he always did. He lit up when he saw Potter.  
  
“Mr. Potter! Eager for your Potions lesson already?” He wagged a finger at Potter and opened the classroom door. “That’s grand, but you mustn’t let your eagerness get ahead of your talent. I remember your mother when she first entered my classroom, how interested she was in learning, and how long it took her to be able to get the Boil Cure Potion correct…”  
  
Draco held back a crow of laughter as he followed Potter. He knew, if Slughorn didn’t—if Brown didn’t—when Potter was concealing a lack of interest. The stiff way he held his shoulder was a giveaway if nothing else was.   
  
Potter looked back at him once.  
  
Draco fluttered his eyelashes. Potter jerked back to the front and nearly slammed into Slughorn.  
  
Draco snickered again, and thought about ways that he could make Potter’s life miserable from here on in.  
  
*  
  
Harry sat on the couch in the Gryffindor common room with his arms folded and his head buried in them, and refused to look up when someone sat down beside him. He knew it would be Ron, come to get angry at Harry again because Harry had lost Gryffindor House twenty points for punching Malfoy in Potions that day.  
  
If Ron only understood that it wasn’t  _that day_ , it was every day of the last bloody fortnight!  
  
But then, Harry would have to explain about the secret smiles and little innuendos and puckered kisses Malfoy was sending him, and why he always reacted to them violently. And Harry knew that the heat brewing in his belly was disgusting, and he hated himself. Even if he was gay, this was  _Malfoy!_  How could he like a git like  _that_?  
  
“Harry?”  
  
It was Hermione, not Ron. Harry sat up and stared at her blankly. He had thought she was even less likely to come and talk to him about it. At least Ron hadn’t been there when it happened, since he didn’t have NEWT Potions. But Hermione had, and she had scolded him viciously for it.  
  
Now, Hermione sat there with one hand in her hair, looking him over gravely, as if he was wounded or something. Harry made himself sit up straight and nod to her in the same serious way. “What is it, Hermione?”  
  
No one else was in the Gryffindor common room, he noticed. Well, it was late. Harry hadn’t wanted to go up to his room, not when he would have to endure shaking heads and sideways glances and little remarks made to the air about how  _certain_ people understood the value of getting along with Slytherins.  
  
Hermione studied him with a frown, but it didn’t turn into the horrified scowl she had been using in Potions when Harry punched Malfoy. She leaned forwards and whispered, “Ron told me what happened on the Quidditch pitch.”  
  
Harry shut his eyes.  _Traitor. Ron’s a traitor._  
  
“That’s the real reason you did it, isn’t it?” Hermione continued, in a tone that she’d probably copied from her mum. “You couldn’t stand your attraction to him, and you had to do something about it.”  
  
Harry whirled up and around to face her. Hermione, in the middle of saying something that would probably have been just as unforgivable as what she’d said so far, promptly clamped her mouth shut and went white. Her hair was trembling now, and Harry realized he had drawn his wand.  
  
And he didn’t want to curse his friend. He never wanted to curse his friend. He put the wand away and turned to the side, where he could see the fire instead of having to look into Hermione’s frightened eyes. He spoke softly and rapidly, because he was only going to say this once, and he wanted to have it over as soon as possible.  
  
“Listen, Hermione. Are you listening?”  
  
He saw the shadow of her head bob.  
  
“I kissed Malfoy by bloody accident, when his web forced us together,” Harry said, and ground his teeth. “And ever since then, he won’t let me forget it. He keeps  _teasing_ me about it. Giving me these looks when other people can’t see. Whispering to me about how I’m his ‘lover.’” Harry was proud of how he spat the word. “And I don’t—I’m  _not going to put up with that._ It was his fault. He can deal with having a bloody nose for a while.”  
  
Hermione was quiet. Harry didn’t know if she had gone away or not until she put a hand on his elbow, and he started so badly that he almost knocked them both off the couch. Hermione made him turn around, and leaned against the back of the couch, studying him gently.  
  
“Have you considered that he’s trying to express his  _own_ attraction, then?” Hermione asked. “The only way he can that he knows how, while pretending he’s not serious?”  
  
Harry snorted. “No. He’s playing with me.” And now he had detention with Slughorn tomorrow night, wonderful. At least it wasn’t going to be detention with  _Malfoy_. Or Snape, who would probably spend the entire time warning him away from making trouble for Malfoy and complaining that Harry didn’t deserve someone as wonderful as a Potions-making Slytherin.  
  
“Have you thought about this from his point of view?” Hermione insisted. “He might have discovered something that he didn’t want to know about, when he was out there. He might just be handling it—”  
  
“I have to go to bed,” Harry interrupted her, standing up. His face was flaming, and it felt as if his belly was doing the same thing. “Ron and the others should be asleep now. No one to blame me for losing those points.”  
  
He sped away from her, up the stairs, and flung himself into his bed without even attempting to change his clothes. His face still burned, badly enough that he wished he was up in the Owlery with Hedwig, feeling the cold air blowing through the windows.  
  
 _No, Hermione. That’s not him. That’s me._  
  
 _And I_ hate  _it. Couldn’t I be normal, just once?_  
  
Slughorn and Hermione might be disappointed in him for punching Malfoy, but it was a lot less dangerous than what else Harry might have done.  
  
*  
  
“Where are you going, Mr. Malfoy?”  
  
Draco felt his back go up as if he was an irritated cat, and he had to fight to hold a polite smile on his face as he turned around and nodded to Snape. He had come out of a door in the dungeons that Draco hadn’t even known led anywhere. He leaned against the dark wall now and folded his arms, considering Draco as if he was a misbehaving potion.  
  
Draco widened his eyes and avoided Snape’s gaze. He knew now that Snape was a Legilimens, and successful liars would need to look away from him. “For a walk, sir. The atmosphere of the common room gets oppressive sometimes,” he added, and that was even true. “I want to get away from my Housemates.”  
  
“And would there be a reason that you are aiming for the Potions office, where Potter is having his detention?”  
  
Draco bit his tongue. How did Snape always, always  _know_? He was worse than Draco’s mother for knowing things, and that was saying something.  
  
“Everyone heard Professor Slughorn announce Potter’s detention, sir,” he said evenly. “Including me. I was there. With blood dripping from my nose.”  
  
“Which makes it all the more imperative that you stay away from Potter and not give him another chance to hurt you.” Snape’s voice was only mild if you weren’t looking at his hands, which Draco was considering out of the corner of his eye. He had tightened his grip on the stone wall as if he wanted to break it to pieces. “Do not think that I have been blind to your teasing.”  
  
Draco did blink and look up then. “Then why didn’t you say something?” After the warning Snape had given him about humiliating Potter, Draco had been sure that Snape would swoop in and stop him if he’d noticed Draco’s fake flirtation.  
  
“Because humiliation that no one notices is different from humiliation they do.” Snape moved so he was looming over Draco. “But it is already reaching dangerous levels. Not surprising, with Potters as prone to violence as they are.” Snape sneered, but absently, his gaze still locked on Draco. “Did Slughorn give you detention with Potter?”  
  
“No.” Draco said it grudgingly. He had managed to come off like a completely innocent victim, and had been very pleased with himself for it.  
  
Until this moment.  
  
“Then you have no excuse for being there,” Snape whispered harshly. “And consider the mood that has turned against Potter, but only as long there seems to be no reason for his behavior. If you are there, and he punches you again…”  
  
Draco shook his head. “I wasn’t going to go into the office, sir. Only gloat through the door.”  
  
“You are lying.”  
  
 _Bloody Legilimens._  Draco hoped that Snape  _did_ pluck that thought out of his head. He lifted his chin and tried to look like his father had when confronting the Dark Lord, at least in Draco’s imagination. He had never seen his father actually do it. “I have to get some form of revenge, sir. Unless you’re going to deny me that because you can’t get revenge on James Potter, so you don’t think anyone else should be able to do anything, either.”  
  
Snape’s face turned flushed as he watched Draco. Then his lips parted in a laugh harsher than his voice. “Very well,” he said. “ _Fool_. If you think that you will simply gloat at him through the door and that is the end of it, you deserve the fate I have been trying to save you from.” And he swept off again.  
  
Draco gaped after him.  _What fate? I’ve managed to fool everyone but him and Potter. And Potter won’t talk about it because it would be horrible. It really is the perfect revenge._  
  
 _Does Snape think I’m incapable of defending myself against someone who doesn’t even have a wand in his detention?_  
  
Draco shook his head fervently as he again started down the corridor. He hoped Snape didn’t think that, because it would be far more humiliating than having the “kiss” spread around the school.  
  
*  
  
“Scrubbing cauldrons like the house-elf you are, Potter? I always said that you should learn your proper place.”  
  
Harry had been lost in some strange netherworld as he worked, his hands flying across the rough surfaces of the cauldrons, the sponges and brushes and all the rest. He hadn’t exactly been happy, but there was no Snape to make sharp remarks about his work now. Slughorn was content to sit inside his inner office at his desk, and doze. Harry had been able to forget about everything else around him and become determined just to get the cauldrons done.  
  
It had reminded him of some of the times that he had worked on chores at the Dursleys’, really.   
  
And that meant that Malfoy’s remark about being a house-elf ignited something that was already primed to burn.  
  
Harry turned around. He knew he was smiling. He knew the smile was probably disturbing, and Hermione would have buried her head in her hands and shaken it back and forth if she could have seen his thoughts. Or maybe she would just have shaken  _him_. Harry could envision Ron scowling at him, too.  
  
 _Don’t encourage Malfoy, mate._ That was what he’d say.  
  
But right now, none of them mattered. What mattered was Harry in the classroom, and Slughorn’s deep snores floating from beyond the inner door, and Malfoy, the prancing, preening, sneering little git, in the outer doorframe.  
  
“I suppose you’d know all about abusing house-elves, too,” Harry said. His voice was pleasant. He kind of liked it. “Dobby told me all about the things your father used to do to him, before he fucked off.” He paused, then added, “Kind of the way your father fucked off to prison.”  
  
Malfoy flushed, and stepped inside the classroom. That was exactly what Harry had wanted him to do. He was using his Slytherin side. The Sorting Hat ought to be proud.  
  
“You know nothing about my father, or the war, or  _real_ political issues,” Malfoy said, the sneer fully in place. “Why so many people bow down to you is beyond me.”  
  
“Right,” Harry drawled. “I know nothing about real political issues when the major one tried to kill me five times.”  
  
Malfoy stepped closer. Harry stayed standing innocently still, but he could feel his heart beating, and for the first time since the Quidditch pitch, it appeared to be beating in accordance with Harry’s own desires.  
  
“You don’t know anything about  _anything_ ,” Malfoy said. His voice was soft, but shaking. Harry knew that way. Snape talked that way sometimes, and Dudley. But neither of them were Malfoy, and neither of them had tormented him as Malfoy tormented him.  
  
Made him think about disgusting things. Made him think things about himself that were stupid and—and  _wrong_.  
  
“Maybe not,” said Harry, and then he gave Malfoy another smile, one that had to work. “Neither did your father.”  
  
That worked.  
  
Malfoy charged at Harry, and Harry moved easily aside, the way he would have if someone had charged him in DA practice last year. Then he grabbed Malfoy’s robe collar and twisted it, and as Malfoy came around, angry and gasping, Harry leaned forwards and sealed his lips solidly over Malfoy’s.  
  
A punishing kiss, this time, meant to make Malfoy feel all the different things that  _Harry_ had. Maybe then, he would stop prancing around and acting like he hadn’t been affected at all.  
  
No one had ever taught Harry how to kiss, but he didn’t need to know how he would tenderly kiss a girl, or someone he was  _really_ dating, to kiss Malfoy. He leaned in and ground his body against Malfoy’s at the same time as he ground his tongue against his lips, and he held Malfoy’s chin so he couldn’t draw away, and he grabbed both of Malfoy’s wrists with his other hand and pinned them between their bodies. He kissed as hard as he could, and when he finally jerked back in contempt, Malfoy couldn’t hide his reaction from himself any more than Harry had been able to on the Quidditch pitch.  
  
Malfoy was hard.  
  
Harry watched him with gleaming, contemptuous eyes, as Malfoy wiped his mouth and staggered one step back, then two.  
  
The way he watched Harry back couldn’t keep his eyes from glittering with want.  
  
Harry smiled again, and that was when Malfoy broke and fled, with Harry’s laughter chasing him down the corridor.


	4. Stormclouds

Harry tore happily, viciously, into a piece of toast.  _It worked!_  Malfoy hadn’t even looked in his direction for the last three days. He was currently sitting at the Slytherin table, but in such a way that he didn’t have to look directly at Harry.  
  
“What happened, Harry?”  
  
Harry glanced sideways at Hermione. She hadn’t tried to talk to him about anything except homework since the night before his detention. But this question didn’t sound like it was about homework.  
  
“I made Malfoy sorry that he was messing with me, that’s all,” Harry replied with a shrug, and then went back to eating. The toast had never tasted so delicious, he thought. Or the marmalade. Or the pumpkin juice. Everything was bright and sparkling and fresh this morning, honestly. And sweet.  
  
“Oh,  _Harry_.” Hermione sounded disappointed in him, and Harry might have cared if he thought she knew anything about it. But she didn’t, and she probably thought he had given Malfoy another bloody nose.  
  
Harry shrugged at her again. “He came and interrupted my detention. Why he couldn’t stay away from me after getting  _punched_ I don’t know.” He went on virtuously eating toast. He thought he could feel Dumbledore watching him from the Head Table, but he didn’t care. The whole point was that he had obeyed rules and stayed inside boundaries, and still managed to have his revenge on Malfoy.  
  
Ron, sitting on the other side of Hermione, overheard what he’d said. “Good for you, mate!” he said, and leaned across Hermione to grin. “What did you do? Punch him again?”  
  
“Of course not, then he would have gone whining to Snape,” Harry said. “I told him the truth about his dad. He ended up running away.” He didn’t intend to tell Ron the full truth, either. The last time he’d done that, Ron had only gone and confessed to Hermione. Harry thought it was best if he kept his secrets all to himself for now.  
  
“Good for you!” Ron repeated, and thumped Harry on the shoulder nearly hard enough to make him drop his toast. “About time someone stood up to Malfoy and made him realize that he’s not Prince of Slytherin anymore!” He shot a triumphant glance towards Malfoy, though Harry didn’t think he met  _that_ one, either, and then continued his own breakfast.  
  
“The war’s over,” said Hermione, dividing her frown between them. “Can’t we just be at peace? Strive for House unity?”  
  
“Not as long as Malfoy’s around, Hermione,” Ron said earnestly. “He just  _needs_ punching.”  
  
Harry nodded, glad that Ron would handle the explanation this time and he could just be the silent support. He was especially glad when a note suddenly appeared right in front of him, next to his plate, and this time he did drop his toast. Luckily, it didn’t land on the note.  
  
 _Or unluckily, as the case may be,_ Harry thought, when he unfolded the note and realized it was from Dumbledore.  
  
 _I think we need to talk, Harry. About boundaries, and rules. Please come to my office at seven. I do have a taste for Lemon Delight this month._  
  
Harry gave a bored sigh and crumpled up the note. Ron hadn’t noticed it, still explaining the many evils of Malfoy’s existence to Hermione, and Hermione only gave him a single intense look and didn’t say anything about it.   
  
Across the Great Hall, Harry  _was_ displeased to see Malfoy hiding a similar note, although it didn’t seem that any of his housemates were interested in looking at it anyway.  
  
 _Putting us in the same room is just asking for trouble, Dumbledore,_ Harry thought, even as he glanced curtly towards the Headmaster and nodded.  _Well, maybe you’ll see that when we show up at the same time and I humiliate Malfoy again the minute he humiliates me._  
  
Snape was watching him, too, Harry saw, with the kind of disapproving glance that seemed common to him since he started teaching Defense and couldn’t fail Harry automatically anymore. Harry gave him a mocking wink and stood up. Did Snape want to complain about Harry’s treatment of Malfoy? He could go ahead. Harry was the one who had the inarguable excuse about Malfoy intruding on his detention.  
  
 _Go on and play with me some more, Malfoy. I doubt you’ll like the result very much._  
  
*  
  
Draco huddled on the chair in the Headmaster’s office. His note had said to be here at six-thirty, but he didn’t think the Headmaster had come back from dinner yet. Or maybe he just wanted to leave Draco to suffer. It seemed like the sort of thing a sadistic Gryffindor would do.  
  
 _You don’t know he’s sadistic._  
  
 _I don’t have any evidence the other way, either,_ Draco thought, and touched his face. It was burning again, the way it seemingly always had for the past three days.  _Besides, his favorite student is Potter, and Potter is pretty bloody sadistic._  
  
The phoenix on his perch gave a sudden croon. Draco gave him a sharp look, then turned back to the desk again. He’d had enough of meeting the bird’s eyes already. It seemed to watch him and bob its head to encourage some action, and Draco suspected it was a Gryffindor action. Potter would probably have had the silver instruments down and smashed to pieces all over the floor already.  
  
 _Well, it’s a Gryffindor bird. Bloody Gryffindor colors_.  
  
The inner door opened then, and Dumbledore stepped into the office. He nodded to Draco and said, with every appearance of good humor, “Thanks for waiting for me, m’boy. We just have to discuss the little matter of your attempted murder. Lemon drop?” Draco honestly almost took a sweet before his mind caught up with the words.  
  
Then he jerked his hand back, heart fast, and shook his head. “I didn’t try to murder anyone,” he whispered.  
  
Dumbledore peered at him over his spectacles. He still looked as cheerful as that bloody phoenix of his. “I must have misunderstood, then,” he said gently. “You didn’t cast a spell that clipped bristles out of Mr. Potter’s broom and could have killed him?”  
  
“I didn’t want to kill him,” said Draco tightly.  _Damn it, damn it, damn it! How did he know?_ There were no portraits on the Quidditch pitch, and that had been one reason Draco dared to try the spell at all. He knew the portraits in the school spied for the Headmaster. “I just wanted to win the race.”  
  
Dumbledore laid his hands flat on the desk. “And yet, our actions can have such unintended consequences,” he said, still gently. “Your teasing of Mr. Potter because of what happened in his web spell, for instance.”  
  
Draco squeezed his eyes shut. He had been careful. So careful. He hadn’t looked at Potter after that, and certainly hadn’t taunted him. Potter couldn’t have told Dumbledore. Snape might have, because Snape seemed to know everything that was happening as a result of him and Potter interacting, but Draco still felt sick.  
  
“You know, don’t you,” Dumbledore said, when some time had passed and Draco didn’t open his eyes, “that you may have opened a door that would have remained closed?”  
  
“The door that leads to utter humiliation and expulsion from the school?” Draco’s mouth was so dry his voice barely emerged from it. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Humiliation and expulsion?”  
  
“You thought I called you here to expel you?” Dumbledore sucked on a sweet and watched him.  
  
“I didn’t—I didn’t know you knew about the spell I cast on Potter’s broom.” Draco made his throat work, although it took a lot of effort. “But if you think I tried to kill him, aren’t you going to expel me?”  
  
“I think you need to consider the consequences of your actions,” said Dumbledore, his voice a bit sharper now. “And no, I am not about to expel you when there are people outside the school who would murder you. I do take the safety of my students seriously.” He seemed about to say something else, but there was a knock on the door.   
  
“That would be Mr. Potter, then,” said Dumbledore, and called, “Come in!”  
  
Draco slid down the chair, closing his eyes. He did find the strength to voice one word. “Why?”  
  
“Because I think you two need to have a conversation that clears the air,” said Dumbledore, and smiled serenely at him. “A very special kind of detention, if you will. Come in, Harry,” he added, without raising his voice. “And do assume that I know about everything that happened between you and Mr. Malfoy, will you?”  
  
*  
  
 _I won’t react._  
  
Harry had already decided on that. He had heard voices behind the office door as he got closer, and assumed it would be either Snape or Malfoy there. If it wasn’t both.  
  
But Harry wouldn’t have reacted even if it was the Dursleys. He reached out, stiff-arming the door open. Malfoy was sliding down in his chair so that only the top tuft of his hair showed over the back. Harry sneered.  
  
Then Dumbledore said what he did, and took Harry by surprise. He spent a moment studying the Headmaster before he shrugged and said, as he came forwards to take the other chair, “All right, but I don’t know why you need to ask about it. He humiliated me, I humiliated him back. Fair’s fair.”  
  
“Do you truly believe that, Harry?”  
  
Dumbledore had the kind of tone in his voice that made Harry want to lower his eyes and squirm. But that was the old him, the one who hadn’t lost Sirius and hadn’t known that Dumbledore had left him to starve with the Dursleys.  
  
“Yes, I do,” he said, and sat down with a  _plump_  that made Fawkes start on his perch. Harry ignored the phoenix. He would just get more upset if he discovered Fawkes looking at him with disappointment in his eyes or something else stupid. “So what are you going to do with us?”  
  
Dumbledore sighed quietly, lifting his head as if he was going to look over Harry’s shoulder and see something different in the distance. Harry took the time to sneak a look at Malfoy. His face was the color of old cheese, and he gripped the arms of his chair as if he had to keep himself from running away.  
  
 _Coward,_ Harry thought, with contempt that almost numbed him with its force.  _He was the one who started this, and then he can’t face up to what he unleashed. Coward. He can’t even look at me._  
  
That bothered Harry more than he had thought it would, and he had just opened his mouth to say something that would  _make_ Malfoy respond when Dumbledore turned back to him and said, “You’ll serve your detention with Mr. Malfoy in the Defense classroom tomorrow at eight.”  
  
Harry snorted a little. “And that’s what he gets for a fortnight of taunting me, right? Can’t have anyone thinking you  _favor_ me.”  
  
He saw Dumbledore wince a little, and gloated. He had slipped that one in under Dumbledore’s guard.  
  
“Who’s going to keep Potter from murdering me?” Malfoy’s voice was quiet, of course, and he turned his head away the instant Harry looked at him. Harry shook his own head in irritation. How could Hermione think he was  _attracted_ to a git like this?  
  
“Ah,” said Dumbledore, “the one supervising the detention, of course.”  
  
“Snape?” Harry asked in a bored tone. It would make sense, because it was the Defense classroom, and it would fit in with Dumbledore acting like Harry was always the one in the wrong when it came to this.  
  
“You shall see when you arrive,” Dumbledore said vaguely. “And do leave your wands in your dorms, boys. Or I’ll know.”  
  
Malfoy just huddled in a small and more miserable ball on his chair. Harry barely held back the impulse to lash out with a foot or something just to get him to stop cowering like that. If he made himself a target, then he was going to get treated like one. It was only sense.  
  
“You’re dismissed, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore said then. “Harry, please stay.”  
  
Harry rolled his eyes and slumped deeper into his chair as Malfoy almost ran out the door. “Right. Of course I am. Because it doesn’t matter that he tormented me for two weeks, right? It  _never_ does. I ought to be bigger and better than that, right? Because I’m the  _bloody_ hero.”  
  
He hoped Dumbledore would at least say something about his language. Instead, Dumbledore looked at him mildly through his glasses and asked the last thing Harry had expected. “Was it something your guardians did that prejudiced you so much against homosexuality, Harry?”  
  
Harry slammed his hands on the desk as he leaped to his feet. He was breathing harshly enough that his lungs hurt, and the only thing he could think of was what he said next. “You’re the last person who should be talking to me about the Dursleys, sir.” He didn’t shout the words the way he wanted to. There wasn’t enough breath left in his lungs for that.  
  
“I apologize,” said Dumbledore, and he sighed, his face old and covered with wrinkles now. “I would like to know what to do to make up for leaving you there, my boy.” Then his expression hardened again. “But I would also like an answer to my question.”  
  
Harry glanced away and shrugged, the skin on his shoulders crawling. He wondered why in the world, of all the questions it could possibly be, Dumbledore wanted the answer to  _this_ one.   
  
“Does it matter?” he asked tightly. “I don’t know why,  _sir_. I just know that I want to be normal, and the best way to do that isn’t going around kissing boys. I want—I want what my parents had.”  
  
“A life cut short in your early twenties?”  
  
Harry turned around and glared. He had forgotten how irritating Dumbledore could be when he put his mind to it.  
  
“No,  _sir_.” He still thought Dumbledore might let him out of the room if he spat the word hard enough. “Marriage and kids and a normal life.”  
  
“They had the first two,” Dumbledore said, and his voice was very gentle. “But I fear you are basing your conjectures about the normality of their lives on your own so far. It is not normal to be hunted from place to place, Harry, to have to spend the first eighteen months of your child’s life in fear that a Dark Lord will come along and kill him. I hope I have not failed you so badly that you think you aren’t worth more than that.”  
  
Harry squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip. Dumbledore was twisting his words all around, he thought. He knew what he meant. Dumbledore  _must_ know what he meant. He was just refusing to listen for some twisted reason.  
  
“I want to be straight, okay?” Harry whispered harshly. “And I don’t want to—look, say that I suddenly decided I was gay and dating boys. It still wouldn’t be  _Malfoy_.” He opened his eyes then and thought to ask a question he should have asked before. “Why do you  _want_ me to date him? Is this about saving him, or something?”  
  
Dumbledore shook his head once. “I will never ask you to do anything like that again, Harry. You have more than earned your retirement.”   
  
Harry couldn’t help giving Dumbledore a suspicious look, but he could at least  _radiate_ sincerity.  
  
“I think, however,” Dumbledore continued, and his face had gone back to the old expression again, “that your stay at the Dursleys’ home taught you many attitudes I had not realized were so detrimental. So do go to the detention tomorrow night, and do talk with Mr. Malfoy. I’m not sure that I expect you to apologize. I only expect you to realize who you really are, and what you really want.”  
  
“Oh,  _only_ ,” Harry said.  
  
Dumbledore smiled, but his eyes still didn’t have the twinkle. “You didn’t answer my question, my boy,” he said softly. “What can I do to make things up to you?”  
  
Harry studied him for a second, not answering. Part of him didn’t want to make things easy for Dumbledore. Why should he? He was the one who had condemned Harry to the Dursleys’ and was condemning him to this detention.  
  
But the only way to test if Dumbledore was really sincere was to take him up on the offer.  
  
“Let me stay at Hogwarts this summer,” he said, and interrupted when Dumbledore began to open his mouth again. “Or with McGonagall, or Madam Pomfrey, or someone else who could look in on me sometimes. If you try to send me back to the Dursleys, then I’ll just run away.”  
  
“You could die,” Dumbledore whispered. “Particularly if not all the Death Eaters are captured by then.”  
  
“I’ll take my chances on that, then.”  
  
Dumbledore sat back with his eyes closed. Harry waited for him to make his decision, trying not to fidget. At last he looked at Harry again and said, “Yes. All right. I will take you myself, if there is—no alternative.”  
  
Harry smiled. He doubted that it was a polite or nice smile, but he had won his point. That was all he cared about right now.  
  
At least until Dumbledore added, with a slight, wistful smile, “If you’ll tolerate one more impertinence from an old man?”  
  
Harry tightened his shoulders, but nodded.  
  
“Don’t fight against who you really are,” Dumbledore said. “Don’t make decisions based on a moment of haste, or prejudice and impatience. You might end up regretting those decisions for the rest of your life.” He hesitated, then added, “I did.”  
  
Harry wondered if he could ask about it, but he doubted Dumbledore would tell him any specifics. In fact, Dumbledore was already going on in a more cheerful voice. “And I was going to say something about the value of family, but I see now that your aunt and uncle did not treat you like family.” He sighed a little, but didn’t seem that upset anymore, not nearly as much as Harry had thought he would be. “Very well. Attend the detention tomorrow with Mr. Malfoy, and I won’t ask you to do anything else.” He reached out and waved a hand over Harry’s head. “Think about it, will you, my dear boy?”  
  
Harry just nodded, because it was easy enough to do that and keep the Headmaster happy, and then stood up and left the office. What was there to think about? There was normal and abnormal, and he couldn’t—  
  
 _And now I sound like Uncle Vernon_.  
  
Harry stopped when he thought that, although the staircase continued to turn beneath him, bearing him downwards. He stood there shivering a little, and wondering if he should—  
  
He should what?  
  
Harry shook his head. Dumbledore had said not to make any hasty decisions. Well, Harry wouldn’t. He had a good resolve and some common sense, and he wasn’t going to decide what wanting to be normal said about him, right now.  
  
His good resolve and common sense lasted until he stepped out the door at the bottom of the staircase, and Malfoy attacked him from the shadow of the gargoyle.  
  
*  
  
Draco had thought about it and thought about it, after he had got past the blazing, burning sensation of someone knowing  _everything_ that had happened between him and Potter.  
  
And he had come to the conclusion that he didn’t deserve any of it. He hadn’t tried to kill Potter. The spell should have clipped some bristles out of his broom but still allowed him to land safely. He hadn’t meant to drive Potter into kissing him. He had shown up at the detention, but that didn’t excuse the things Potter had said and done.  
  
Draco was sure that, if other people knew about it (and didn’t laugh), they would agree with him. What Potter had done was assault.  
  
So Draco would have to get him back for it, because he knew well enough that no justice would be forthcoming from Dumbledore or Snape or anyone else that he might once have counted on to restrain Potter. And when he leaped out and bore Potter to the floor and started slugging punches into his exposed face, he did think for a second that he would get his revenge.  
  
Potter was twisting, trying to raise his hands in front of his face and not succeeding. Draco felt a strong, vicious satisfaction tear through him, and he laughed aloud. He would go to the detention tomorrow, and be able to look at Potter’s bloody nose and blackened eyes, and—  
  
Then Potter pushed him so hard in the stomach that all Draco’s air went out of him. His eyes crossed the next second, when Potter hit him in the nose,  _again_. Then Potter pushed him over on his side, and Draco tried to sit up and found Potter punching him in the stomach, again and again.  
  
It was horrible. It  _hurt_. Draco thought he would start coughing up blood if it went on. And it didn’t seem like Potter was going to stop.  
  
Draco did the only thing he could do, the only thing he thought would get Potter guaranteed to stop. He reached up and grabbed him by the back of his neck and bit him hard on the mouth.  
  
Potter bit him back, getting Draco’s tongue in his teeth and grinding down really hard on it. Draco squealed, because there was  _blood_ in his mouth, what the  _fuck_ was Potter thinking, and then bit down again. This time, he thought he got more of Potter’s lips and less of his teeth.  
  
He tried to roll them over, but Potter locked his knees against the floor and seemed determined to keep them in the same position. He rolled his hips against Draco’s, actually  _rolled_ them as if this was some kind of contest to see who could act the stupidest, and then pulled back. Draco tried to scream, but his mouth was still full of blood, and he had to swallow it.  
  
Then Potter slammed his lips down again.  
  
Draco’s mind was swimming. There were dark and red blooms opening in front of his eyes, and he had no idea what he should do next. He opened his mouth because he thought complaining might be a start, and Potter slipped his tongue in.  
  
It felt far too good.  
  
Draco bucked more seriously, pushing up against Potter’s shoulders, and this time, he got him off. They stared at each other in silence for a minute. Potter had blood on his face and his hair was as shaggy as though someone had tried to rip it out. Draco suspected he probably looked similar.  
  
And then Draco stood up and began to run, not looking back, not thinking about the heat in his belly or what it would mean for the detention they were supposed to have tomorrow night.  
  
If he didn’t think about it, it couldn’t hurt him. He was almost sure.


	5. Stormbreak

Hermione had kept silent for a long time after Harry had told his friends an edited version of the talk with Dumbledore and the fight with Malfoy, but now, when Ron was proposing getting out a chess game and passing time until the detention, she burst out with, “You can’t keep  _doing_ this, Harry!”  
  
“Of course he can’t,” Ron agreed, and Hermione turned towards him, smiling. Harry had to snicker a little at how fast her smile disappeared when Ron added, “He needs to just beat Malfoy up once and for all. Not keep hesitating around the edges like this. It makes Malfoy think he can get away with this rubbish.”  
  
“That’s not what I  _meant_ , Ron.”  
  
“No, but it’s what I meant when I told Harry it had to end.” Ron began setting out chess pieces on the board, and nodded to Harry over them. “You’re going to do that, right, mate? Pound him so hard in the detention that he won’t come after you again?”  
  
Harry shut his eyes. He was trying to decide how he  _was_ going to end this. The pain when Malfoy had attacked him. The satisfaction of hitting him in the nose. Malfoy’s wide, panicked eyes when Harry had lured him close enough in Slughorn’s office to kiss him.  
  
The shameful burning in his own belly.   
  
“Mate?”  
  
Harry shuddered a little and opened his eyes, to find Hermione watching him with the same look of disapproval and Ron with the same expectant look. They didn’t know anything about what was going on in his head, Harry thought. They didn’t know he was actually  _attracted_ to Malfoy—or worried about being attracted. They thought he was the same person as before.  
  
Harry sat up. He was sick of this, he thought. Of fighting and running away and having Malfoy come back and try to do the same thing. He  _was_ going to end it, but not because of Dumbledore and what he had said about having regrets. Harry wouldn’t  _have_ regrets if only Malfoy was smart enough to not keep trying to sneak up on him.  
  
It would be worth it, if he could make Malfoy back off once and for all. Then he wouldn’t have to keep trying to fight him.  
  
“I am,” he said. “And it’s going to be more like Ron’s way than your way, Hermione.”  
  
Ignoring her despairing “ _Harry_!”, he concentrated on the chess game with Ron. Maybe he could pick up some lessons in strategy that would help him when he was dealing with Malfoy.  
  
Of course he lost, because with Ron he always did, but he went to bed with the satisfaction still drumming in his head like Dudley’s footsteps down the stairs above the cupboard. He had made his decision, and Malfoy wouldn’t be able to escape it.  
  
*  
  
Draco wondered why in the world he had been called here. It was lunch, he should have been in the Great Hall, and yet he stood in front of Snape’s desk with the professor staring at him as if he was a potion that kept blowing up despite the addition of a calming agent.  
  
Draco was expecting some kind of scolding for fighting Potter last night, but it seemed Snape was determined to do nothing but stare. And stare. And stare.  
  
Draco finally cracked. “What do you  _want_ , sir?” he burst out.  
  
Snape sat back and rubbed one finger down his nose. It was a nose Draco had sometimes envied him, because he knew Snape’s delicate sense of smell was one reason he was such a good Potions master and could tell in an instant if a wrong ingredient had entered a draught. But at the moment, all Draco could really think of was how like a hawk’s beak Snape’s nose was.  
  
“I want you to consider what you’re doing,” Snape said at last. “Strategy is one thing, wild flailing another.”  
  
“And I want  _you_ to explain what you’re talking about,” Draco snapped, ignoring the flare of dangerous light in Snape’s eyes. “I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m trying to get back at Potter.”  
  
“For what?” Snape whispered, and stood up, stalking around the desk.  
  
Draco backed up, unnerved, before he could stop himself. Snape wasn’t supposed to do  _that._ He wasn’t supposed to take Potter’s side. He was supposed to agree that Potter was insufferable and it was the duty of any good Slytherin to eliminate his pride if they could.  
  
But with his Head of House looming over him this way, Draco couldn’t come up with a single thing to say.  
  
Snape watched him with his head on one side for a moment, and then struck, unforgiving. “You want to get him back for making a fool of you? For not taking your hand in friendship your first year? For any of a number of other  _childish_ insults that a true Slytherin would have found a way to work past?”  
  
That stung. Draco straightened and said, “I didn’t see  _you_ ignoring him, sir, even when it would have been more diplomatic to do so.”  
  
Snape scoffed a little and said, “You may see that I have learned my lesson.” And it was true that Snape was snapping less at Potter in class, now that Draco thought of it. “You would be wise to do the same.” Snape turned towards his desk again.  
  
“None of this would have happened if he hadn’t smashed his mouth against mine,” Draco called at Snape’s back. “If he hadn’t tried to cast his stupid web spell.”  
  
Snape spun around, his body low and parallel to the floor, so unnerving that Draco hopped back before he could help himself. “And if  _you_ had not tried to clip the bristles from his broom,” Snape whispered in turn. “Remember that, Draco. Always remember that.”  
  
He stalked off to the back of his office. Draco decided that meant he was dismissed, but still backed cautiously to the door, his eyes on Snape, in case the professor decided that Draco  _wasn’t_ dismissed and he was being disrespectful.  
  
But no call like that came from Snape’s mouth. Draco found himself standing in the corridor again, fuming as his plans fell in ruins around him.   
  
Snape wanted Draco to leave Potter alone? Didn’t he see how  _impossible_ that was, when everyone else was ignoring Draco and his father was in prison and it was all _Potter’s_ fault? If Potter hadn’t defeated the Dark Lord, then everything would have been fine, and Father would be free, and the Malfoys would be an honored family again, the way they  _should_ be.  
  
Draco clenched his hands into fists. The only way to fulfill his goals, avenge his father, and do what Snape suggested was to make Potter leave him alone permanently.   
  
And Draco thought the detention tonight would be his best chance.  
  
*  
  
“Welcome to your detention, boys.”  
  
Harry glared at Dumbledore as he stepped into the Defense classroom. Malfoy was already waiting there, and so was Dumbledore, and no one else. Was  _Dumbledore_ going to supervise the detention, then?  
  
But the Headmaster gave a small nod and chuckle as though he had read Harry’s thoughts and been amused by the idea. “You’ll have a particular guardian as you begin working through your differences,” he said, and waved his wand. A string of sparkling green lights unwound from the tip and towards the ceiling. Harry stared, not recognizing the spell. It clustered near the top of the window that looked out into the lake. “Hogwarts itself will be watching you.”  
  
Malfoy was the first one to find his voice, which embarrassed Harry. He ought to have asked the question before bloody  _Malfoy_ could. “It’s a spell to give the school sentience?”  
  
“It has that already,” said Dumbledore cheerily. “Though not in the way we do, I suppose you could say. More like the life of a great tree, directed towards the roots and the sunlight more than what creatures live on it… But.” He clapped his hands briskly. “This is only asking it to pay more attention to  _you_ for a while.”  
  
Harry stared around. He had expected to find dirty cauldrons, buckets of washing water, quills and parchment set for them to write lines—he rubbed the back of his right hand in memory— _something_. Instead, the classroom was empty except for a pair of chairs in the middle of it, and no desks at all.  
  
“Sir?” he asked, turning around to stare at Dumbledore.  
  
“Thank you for reminding me, Harry,” said Dumbledore, and performed a complicated little maneuver with his wand. Harry’s wand flew out of his robe pocket and into Dumbledore’s grasp before Harry could even think of stopping it. The only comfort was that he saw the same thing happening with Malfoy’s wand. “Now. You can’t use magic against each other, and Hogwarts will stop you if you get violent.”  
  
“How?” Malfoy demanded in a snotty voice that made Harry long to punch him. Couldn’t some of the adults, at least, see how very  _punchable_ Malfoy was?  
  
“I’m not sure you want to see,” said Dumbledore, and his eyes glinted from behind his glasses. Malfoy fell silent.  
  
Dumbledore turned to Harry and shook his head a little. “I expect you to come out of this room with your differences resolved. The method you choose of resolving them makes no difference to me.” His voice was suddenly stern. “You can agree to ignore each other for the rest of the year. You can become friendly. You can discuss some of the  _forces_ driving your fights.” This time, his gaze rested unmistakably on Harry, who flushed in anger. Why did Dumbledore think it was all his fault when Malfoy had got hard, too? “Or you can talk about your childhoods and find common ground there. But these fights endanger you, the school, and the safety of other students if you start dueling each other in the corridors.”  
  
“I wouldn’t have done anything if  _he_ —” Harry began.  
  
“It wasn’t like I cast the web spell, Potter!”  
  
“I see it is time for me to withdraw,” said Dumbledore, and stepped out the door of the classroom with a faster movement than an old man should have been able to use.  
  
Harry nearly ran towards the door and hammered on it as it shut, but he saw the stones swell slightly along the sides, and knew Dumbledore or maybe Hogwarts wouldn’t let it open. He turned towards Malfoy instead, and let fly.  
  
“If  _you_ hadn’t pounced on me last night, we wouldn’t be here!”  
  
Malfoy had the nerve to swell up like a frog. “That’s stupid! Dumbledore assigned us the detention before then, remember?”  
  
“But he wouldn’t think there was anything to  _settle_ if you didn’t keep fighting me!” Harry’s hands closed into fists. He wanted to hit Malfoy. He wanted it so  _badly_. But he was also a little worried about what Hogwarts might do to stop him. “If you could just leave me alone and go back to your fatherless existence—”  
  
Malfoy did rush him then, with a snarl. Harry got ready to grab his arm and trip him as he went by, something they’d practiced in the DA last year, but instead, the stones opened up beneath Malfoy and dropped him neatly into a small pit. Then they closed again around his waist, leaving him hanging and writhing there.  
  
Harry laughed. He bent over holding his stomach, it was so funny. Malfoy glared at him.  
  
“I saw your face,” he whispered. “It could have been you here as easily as me. You wanted to hit me.”  
  
“But I didn’t.” Harry sat down on one of the chairs, swinging his legs. Now that he thought about it, obeying Dumbledore might be more fun than disobeying him after all, especially if it made Malfoy react like that. “What do you think we ought to do? I think ignoring each other would be best.”  
  
*  
  
Draco felt as though every part of him was on fire. His cheeks were the worst, but it had spread to other parts of him, and he wanted nothing more than to reach out and tear the smile from Potter’s smugly laughing face.   
  
He couldn’t, though. He only had one arm above the level of the stone floor. The other was trapped down at his side, and he had no idea when Hogwarts would consent to release him.  
  
“I’m not going to ignore you,” he said. “You have to pay for what you said about my father.”  
  
Potter sighed and cupped his chin in his hand, staring ahead in a way that reminded Draco of his mother and the way she would deal with some boring dinner guest. It only increased the temptation to launch himself at Potter the moment he was free. “Yes, yes, Malfoy. And you have to pay for what you did to me during the past fortnight.” He cast Draco a glance that at least made Draco smile. It burned, too. No, Potter wasn’t going to leave him alone. “But I think you did.”  
  
Draco laughed. “No, you don’t. It’s not as though you’re any better about controlling yourself, Wonder Boy, or we wouldn’t be here.”  
  
“IF you could  _bloody well let it go_.” Potter sat up and pointed one finger at him. “Did you think you were being funny?”  
  
“Well,  _yes_ ,” said Draco, and rolled his eyes. Honestly, did Potter think that anyone would go around making a joke they didn’t find funny? Draco was almost more offended for what that said about a Slytherin’s sense of humor than any other stupid thing Potter had said to him.  
  
“You thought it was funny to imply I wasn’t normal?”  
  
Draco opened his mouth and blinked a bit. “I thought it was funny that you kissed me,” he said. “Your enemy.”  
  
Potter stood, and now he was the one who was stalking towards Draco. Draco had just started to get nervous about his prospects for defending himself when a neat little hole opened up under Potter’s ankle. Potter staggered down, and the floor snapped shut around  _his_ foot, too. Draco snickered.  
  
Potter seemed to have decided Hogwarts wasn’t worth paying attention to. “Being gay isn’t normal,” he whispered harshly.  
  
Draco just stared at him, blinking. “Why not?” he finally asked, when he had sought for a reason in his mind and found none. He had never heard anyone tell him gay wizards weren’t  _normal._ They were just sort of there. There weren’t enough of them to make a fuss about. As long as they didn’t have the sort of scandalous affairs that would get anyone in trouble in Draco’s parents’ world, Draco didn’t think he would ever hear anyone mention their names disapprovingly.  
  
“Is this some crazy Muggle thing?” he added, when Potter stared at him with his breath puffing out and his face going some darker color than red.  
  
*  
  
 _He made fun of you once before. He’s probably making fun of you now._  
  
Harry had to doubt it, though. The blankness on Malfoy’s face was too real. And the stone floor was easing around Malfoy now, drawing back and letting him scramble up. Malfoy swatted some dust from his robes and gave Harry a single haughty glance.  
  
Harry tugged instinctively on his trapped foot. It stayed right where it was. He grimaced and shook his head, standing taller so that he could look Malfoy in the eye if he came over.  
  
But Malfoy stayed right where he was, his gaze fastened on Harry. “Well?” he added. “ _Is_ it some crazy Muggle thing?”  
  
“You could stand to say Muggle with a little less disdain,” Harry told him.  
  
Malfoy snorted. “As if you would believe me if I did. But I’m interested in this. Why are you so convinced that it’s not normal?” He folded his arms.  
  
“Are you saying that you’re gay, then?” Harry didn’t want to have this conversation, and not just because he’d already had it with Dumbledore. Besides, Malfoy being gay would make his teasing make sense.  
  
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”  
  
Harry snorted loud enough that Malfoy flinched back. Harry hoped he’d got some bogies on the git. “You  _must_ have thought about it. Your parents have probably arranged some marriage for you, right?”  
  
Malfoy tensed up so fast that he reminded Harry of some of Mrs. Figg’s cats when they got stepped on. “As if that would hold,” Malfoy said, biting off every word, “now that my father is in prison and no respectable family will associate with us.”  
  
Harry hadn’t thought of that, but he didn’t think it had to really concern him, either. “That was what he deserved, to be in prison. He’s a  _Death Eater_ , Malfoy.”  
  
“He was under the Imperius Curse—”  
  
Harry snorted again. And Hogwarts finally released the hold on his foot, and let Harry limp over to one of the chairs. He sat down and glared at Malfoy, who glared back, but didn’t move towards him.  
  
“Fine,” said Malfoy. “Let’s say that I never really believed the excuse. But now? What choice do you think he had, Potter? Father said you were at the Dark Lord’s resurrection.” Malfoy’s voice fell. “Do you think he was going to let my father go? Even if he’d tried to run, the Dark Lord would have made sure he slaughtered Mother and me in retaliation.”  
  
Harry hadn’t thought of that, either. It made him uncomfortable, and he hit out, the way he mostly had since Sirius’s death. “He could still have done something other than fighting for him and coming after me in the Ministry. Become a spy or something. Snape did that, you know.”  
  
Malfoy cocked his head. “Snape is good at Occlumency. Not everyone is. My father, for instance.”  
  
Harry shook his head. “You’re making excuses for a man who tortured and murdered people. I don’t want to listen to you.” He turned around and looked at the door, wondering what Hogwarts would count as “resolving their differences.” If he made the decision to ignore Malfoy for the rest of his life, would the school sense that and let him out?  
  
“And what if I said the same thing to you?”  
  
Harry turned around and stared at him. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“Professor Snape did that.” Malfoy’s head was proudly lifted, which infuriated Harry again. He should have been  _crawling,_ but here he was, acting like he had a right to some kind of pride. Harry stayed still, though, knowing what would happen if he charged Malfoy. “Tortured and killed people. Even if you say that he did it as part of his cover, he still did it. And I say that Father only went along with it this time because he knows what would have happened to Mother and me if he didn’t.”  
  
Harry was silent. He only knew Snape had been a spy because Dumbledore had told him so. Dumbledore had never said what was involved in that. Harry hadn’t particularly cared to ask.  
  
“And what about when Professor Snape was first a Death Eater?” Malfoy went on, in the same kind of relentless way he had flirted with Harry. “You have to be willing to get the Dark Mark. Was he only pretending  _then_?”  
  
“I have no idea. I wasn’t alive.”  
  
“And neither was I when my father was in the first war.” Malfoy folded his arms and turned away. “It wasn’t something he discussed with me. So I have no idea what his motivations were.”  
  
Harry just stared at him, and wanted to shout that it wasn’t the same, that Snape had paid for his mistakes and Malfoy’s father never would. But he didn’t think he could change Malfoy’s mind that way.  
  
And now that he thought about it, he  _didn’t_ know what Snape had done when he was in disguise as a Death Eater. He hadn’t really wanted or cared to ask. Of course, he had still been thinking more about Sirius and the end of the war than what Dumbledore had told him about Snape.  
  
“So what are we going to do about getting out of here?” Malfoy finally asked, when some minutes had passed in silence and both of them had continued to sit there.  
  
Harry looked hopefully towards the door, but it was still sealed. He sighed. He suspected Dumbledore would say that, even if they respected each other a little more, they still hadn’t come to any agreement.  
  
“Look,” he said. “How about this. We could ask Dumbledore to cast a spell that would let Hogwarts punish us when one of us was about to attack the other. The way that it’s doing in this room.”  
  
Malfoy turned and looked at him incredulously. “And what about when we’re outside the school? At Quidditch practice, or in a game? Or when you go for one of your wanders through the Forbidden Forest that apparently happen yearly?”  
  
“That’s not—” Harry began, furious again.  
  
Malfoy shook his head, looking so smug that Harry once again wanted to strangle him. He only managed to restrain himself because he knew that Hogwarts would punish him if he didn’t. “See what I mean, Potter? I say one thing that isn’t even that insulting, and you start raging again?”  
  
Harry sat back down and pressed his wrists against his forehead. His chest felt like it was on fire. He wanted to breathe out all the fire on Malfoy and watch his face fucking  _melt_.  
  
 _What happened to me? I used to be able to control myself better than this._  
  
But Harry knew. Sirius happened, and finding out that Dumbledore had been behind sending him to the Dursleys, and the end of the war—he couldn’t even be happy about that with the Death Eaters hanging around—and then Malfoy.  
  
A slow, new idea grew in Harry, as he sat there. He couldn’t bring Sirius back, or change anything about the way Voldemort died and that he had been a Horcrux. But the fiercest moment of satisfaction he had felt since the end of the war, perhaps the only one, was when he had forced Dumbledore to admit he’d done something wrong in sending Harry to Privet Drive and Harry could stay somewhere else this summer. When he’d  _solved_ one of those problems that made him feel horrible.  
  
He had thought he’d solved the problem with Malfoy, but they were here, so he hadn’t. And the fiery feeling in his chest made him feel more horrible, not less.  
  
He lifted his head and stared at Malfoy. Malfoy looked back at him, face wary and fingers clenched as if he still had his wand.  
  
“Look,” said Harry. “If we’re—if we’re going to talk about this, you can’t insult me, all right? Not my friends, either. And you can’t say anything about my godfather. Or Gryffindor House.”   
  
“And you can’t say anything about my father, or Slytherin, or  _my_ friends,” Malfoy specified at once.  
  
 _What friends?_ Harry badly wanted to say.  _I haven’t noticed that you had any since we came back to school._  
  
But that was exactly the sort of confrontation he was trying to avoid. He swallowed. “Okay.”  
  
“Okay,” Malfoy echoed, and moved towards him. Harry shifted his weight on the chair, but all Malfoy did was sit down on the other one and look at him expectantly.  
  
Harry sat up.  _I can do this. I’m a bloody hero of the wizarding world, and Dumbledore trusts me._ As he should.  _He should have told me the truth about the Horcruxes and the prophecy a long time ago. I could have dealt with it. Not when he sprang it on me all of a sudden, but like this._  
  
 _And I can deal with this._  
  
*  
  
Draco wondered what the hell was going on behind Potter’s eyes. The way his forehead was furrowed, he looked like he was planning murder again. Draco shifted his feet defensively, ready to stand up and run the other way if Potter looked like getting up.  
  
Yeah, Hogwarts would probably trap him again if he tried something, but this close, he might be able to punch Draco before that happened.  
  
On the other hand, Draco was tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of being afraid. He had wanted to have a normal year when he came back to Hogwarts, and it was obvious that he wouldn’t get that if he kept fighting.  
  
Potter finally looked at him and then asked, “All right. Why did you keep teasing me when you  _had_ to know that I didn’t mean to kiss you?”  
  
“Because I wanted to tease you,” Draco mumbled. “And you looked horrified.” It really had been nothing more than that, although he knew that his parents would have been horrified themselves at such an admission. You  _never_ gave away information like that. And you never admitted to exercising such sadistic impulses, if that was what you were doing. That gave them a license to destroy you.  
  
With Potter, though, it  _might_ be different. He might listen to Draco instead of despising him the way a Slytherin opponent would for a confession like that. Maybe.  
  
“Why did you want to tease me if you don’t think being gay is weird, though?”  
  
Draco shook his head. “Why do you keep coming back to that? I would have teased a girl the same way, if we were enemies and she’d accidentally kissed me and looked horrified about it. It was just a weakness I could focus on.”  
  
Potter stared at him, a mottled flush creeping up his cheeks. “I don’t think you’re a very nice person, Malfoy,” he said clearly.  
  
Draco winced and writhed, embarrassed as he had never been when he was receiving praise from his Housemates for some successful irritation of Potter or Weasley. “No,” he said. ”But I wasn’t—I wasn’t raised to be nice to Gryffindors.”  
  
Potter rolled his eyes. “Blame it all on your parents, why don’t you.”  
  
“Well, you seem to have decided that kissing boys is weird and horrible,” Draco shot back. “Based on the way you were raised.” He doubted it could be anything else, and because of all the mistakes Potter had made when he was in the wizarding world, and the common knowledge he lacked, Draco really didn’t think he’d spent any time among proper people before the age of eleven.   
  
“It—I want to have a wife and family,” Potter said, carefully.  
  
“Fine.” Draco didn’t see the point of this. “Just because you kissed me three times doesn’t mean you can’t have a wife and family.”  
  
Potter stared at him again. “If I’m  _gay_ , it doesn’t.”  
  
“Then you’ll have a husband and a family.” Draco  _still_ didn’t see the point of this, and he thought it was about time he said so, while being careful to hold to the terms of the agreement they had so far. “Really, Potter, what the bloody hell are you going on about? If you want a wife, you can have one. If you don’t want to have one, then you don’t need to date me, either. Do you think that because you probably kissed a girl already, she’s the one you have to marry?”  
  
Potter’s face turned as red as a phoenix. Draco sat, and waited. And waited some more, while Potter squirmed and looked around as though he  _hoped_ Hogwarts would trap him and take him away this time.  
  
Finally, he mumbled, “The—the way I felt when I kissed a boy was different.”  
  
Draco nodded. “All right. Then maybe you’re gay or you like boys better. Or you need to go kiss others so you know.” It was weird to sit here talking about this, but then, Potter’s scruples were weird. “Really, Potter, what in the  _world_  is happening in that head of yours?”  
  
*  
  
Harry put his head in his hands.  
  
 _What is happening? I don’t know._  
  
He had thought he would be teased. He had been  _sure_ that was why Malfoy had teased him, because he’d reacted to another  _boy_ that way. And then when Malfoy had fled after Harry forced him to confront how  _he_ felt about the kiss, Harry had thought it was for the same reason.  
  
But the way Malfoy had looked at him blankly and shaken his head as if he couldn’t imagine running away for that reason, or teasing Harry for that reason…  
  
Harry shuddered.  
  
 _Was it really all a mistake? Did I think he was teasing me and taunting me about the wrong thing?_  
  
It seemed so. Of course, Malfoy could have been lying, but Harry had to admit that even Ron hadn’t seemed to act as though Harry was horrible or abnormal for kissing a boy. It was  _Malfoy_ that Ron couldn’t believe he might be attracted to.  
  
Harry, sitting there, realized he couldn’t even remember how he had started believing it was horrible to be gay. Sometimes Vernon or Petunia would talk about gay people in disgusted tones, but no more disgusted than they used to talk about people from other countries or people who weren’t white. And they had even sounded less excitable than they got about “freaks.”  
  
 _Am I just worrying about this because the Dursleys raised me?_  
  
That was horrible. Harry had been sitting here for years congratulating himself on escaping from all the negative consequences of that kind of upbringing. He didn’t have a problem with magic, even though they had tried to make him have one. He didn’t have a problem with Dean or the other black people he knew at Hogwarts. He hadn’t thought that it was strange to have people from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons here during the Tri-Wizard Tournament.  
  
But he had to wonder, now, if he was less enlightened than he’d thought he was. More like the Dursleys than he thought he was.  
  
 _I refuse to be like them. I’m not going to be like them no matter what happens._  
  
Harry sat up with a gasp and shook his head. When he looked down, his hands were trembling, locked into fists in front of him. He slowly opened them and turned to look at Malfoy.  
  
Malfoy only sat and watched Harry with a cautious expression that suggested he thought Harry was going mental. Harry could understand that.  
  
It didn’t make him like Malfoy any better. Not…really. He still thought Malfoy was a pretty horrible person for taunting Ron and Hermione and going through all those plans just because he wanted to humiliate Harry.  
  
But it made him think differently about everything Malfoy had done in the past fortnight. Maybe it  _could_ be easier to find a truce after the war than before it.  
  
“Listen,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I have to know something else. What did you—why did you kiss me last night? In the fight outside Dumbledore’s office.”  
  
“I know very well when that was, Potter.” Malfoy had gone to a stiff sitting posture again, and kept his eyes carefully away from Harry’s. “And I did it because it was the only way I could think of to get you to stop hitting me.”  
  
“Why, though? You could have hit  _me_ , too.”  
  
“Because kissing me upset you so much,” Malfoy said bluntly, turning to face him. “I have to admit I don’t understand  _why_ , but it did. So that was why I did it.”  
  
Harry blinked. Malfoy spoke about it like it was a tactic in battle, nothing more. The way that Harry would have tried to stay near adults so Dudley couldn’t bully him or run away before he could get started.  
  
A way to win.  
  
That made a different kind of anger start stirring in Harry, though. “So you felt nothing,” he said.  
  
Malfoy’s face darkened. “I bloody well felt your fists slamming into my stomach, if that’s what you mean.”  
  
“That’s  _not_ what I meant,” Harry insisted. He stood up, but didn’t walk towards Malfoy, still wary of Hogwarts misunderstanding his intentions. “When I kissed you. You just felt anger and desperation to get me to stop and nothing else?”  
  
Malfoy sat frozen on his chair. Harry folded his arms. “Come on, I’ve been honest and you’ve been honest so far,” he said. “Or are you going to be the one to tell Dumbledore that you can’t change your mind about anything?”  
  
*  
  
 _Just because you might be gay doesn’t mean I am._  
  
But Draco knew, as much as he had felt Potter’s hardness against his own, that Potter had felt the exact same thing from Draco against his stomach last night.  
  
Draco wished he could be away from that room. He wished he could do  _something_ other than sit there and wait for Potter to speak. But it became more and more obvious, as minutes passed, that Potter wasn’t going to speak. It was up to Draco, if he ever wanted to get out of this stupid room.  
  
He cleared his throat with enough harshness that Potter jumped. Draco was meanly glad to see that. He went on, slowly, “I felt something else. It was—I don’t know, Potter, I don’t  _know_ what to call it.” His anger broke out, and he stood up and paced away from Potter, staring at the walls and trying to figure out what exactly he was supposed to say to get himself out of this situation. “Is that what you wanted to hear? That I can’t give you any answers because I’m just as fucked up in the head as you are?”  
  
Potter shifted restlessly behind him. Draco was savoring the unusual sensation of freedom that had overcome him when he said the word “fucked,” and he went on with a little more confidence. “I think that I just wanted to win over you. That’s why I cast that spell at your broom, you know.”  
  
“I  _knew_ you had something to do with that!”  
  
Draco nearly swung around and snapped back, but he managed to clench his teeth and hold what he would have said in.  _Do you want to get out of here in a reasonable amount of time?_ he asked himself.  _Then go along with what he’s saying, for now at least._ “Fine. I did. And then—I was teasing you because it affected you, the way I said. And then you forced that kiss on me, and I forced the one on you.” Draco could be fair, his father had taught him, when it served some purpose. “I’m not sure if I’m gay or not. But I felt something.”  
  
He peeked over his shoulder. He had thought the door might have swung open, but no such luck; it was still firmly shut. Draco sighed in aggravation and studied Potter. Was  _he_ going to listen to Draco and let him go?  
  
Apparently not. Potter was sitting bolt upright with his eyes fixed on Draco’s and a slightly dazed expression on his face. Then he stood up all the way.  
  
Draco folded his arms. “Remember what Hogwarts will do to you if you try to hit me.” It came out strained and high, and this time, he flushed in pure embarrassment, without the anger.  
  
“I’m not going to hit you,” Potter whispered. “I just want to try something.”  
  
He was coming closer. Draco tensed, but reminded himself, again, that the floor had trapped both of them when they were going to be violent. This wasn’t a punishment that would hurt Draco while ignoring Dumbledore’s favorite student, the way Draco had thought it might be at first.  
  
Potter came to a stop in front of him, and stared into his eyes. Draco stared back, and told himself that the stupid fluttering in his stomach came from nothing except the kind of tension that always happened when someone was close. It didn’t have anything to do with boy or girl or Gryffindor or Slytherin. Draco would have been just as wary of Greg or Pansy standing there, especially now.  
  
Potter reached out with one hand. He kept checking Draco’s eyes while he did it, so Draco didn’t think he was doing it for any sinister reason. But Draco remained tense even when Potter had touched his face without punching him, because he was turning Draco’s face towards him.  
  
And Draco could think of only one thing that was going to happen once his head was turned.   
  
“No,” he blurted out, tucking his chin into his shoulder and keeping his eyes turned to the wall.  
  
Potter paused, then pulled his hand back. “All right,” he said, his voice as blank as the wall. “Then I suppose we only need to make an agreement about how we’ll treat each other after this, and tell Dumbledore. And maybe the walls, too, so that the room will let us out,” he added, and Draco heard him turning around.  
  
Draco faced him again, mouth open. Potter didn’t look at him. He was already walking towards one of the chairs, and although it was always hard to tell something about someone’s expression from the back of their head, Draco thought he would look pretty stoic and accepting.  
  
“So that’s  _it_?” Draco’s voice went high.  
  
Potter turned back to him, blinking. “Well, yeah. I reckon so. We just need to think about what we’ll say, and—”  
  
“Not  _that_.” Draco waved his hand at the room, then at his lips. He knew he might sound ridiculous, but no more ridiculous than Potter with his Muggle notions, and anyway, he couldn’t have stopped himself now for a hundred Galleons. “You’re just giving up on kissing me after all  _that_?”  
  
*  
  
Harry stared with his mouth open. He might look utterly gormless, but better gormless than  _inconsistent_ , he thought, with a renewed surge of ferocity.  
  
“You told me to stop,” he said, speaking very slowly so Malfoy could get a word in edgewise if he wanted to protest. Malfoy didn’t protest, but he did glare. “So I did. If we’re really going to have a truce, then I’m not going to force a kiss on you when you don’t want it! That’s what I did when we were  _enemies_!”  
  
“But you just gave up,” Malfoy continued, in a grave voice that suddenly turned into the high one again. “And now you’re standing there with your arms folded as it doesn’t even  _matter_ to you.” He moved a step closer, his eyes narrow, and he scanned Harry as if his toes would give a better answer than his hair. “It doesn’t matter to you, does it?”  
  
Harry let out a loud sigh. “You’re the one who doesn’t make sense. You said you didn’t want me to. And you’re probably not gay, even if I am, so I stopped. And you told me that I ought to go and kiss other boys, so that’s what I should do.” Harry winced at the thought of it. He didn’t know if he was any good at kisses that didn’t involve crying or punching. But he would try to be.  
  
Malfoy looked even more pissed than before, which made Harry start getting angry again in return. “But I expected you to protest,” Malfoy continued to rant. “Not just stand there and then walk away the first chance you got!”  
  
Harry shook his head slowly. “You’re a wonder, Malfoy, did you know that?”  
  
“Say I’m a wonderful kisser, then.” Malfoy was still red, but he sounded calmer. Harry stared at him askance, then shook his head again.  
  
“I can’t say that, because all our kisses were in the middle of fighting, and how am I supposed to know?”  
  
“You could know if you kissed a girl before this.” Malfoy moved closer. There was a look in his eye that frankly worried Harry.  
  
“That wasn’t very good at the time. She was crying—”  
  
“Harry Potter, skilled kisser,” Malfoy said, and his voice wasn’t cruel, but it was mocking enough that Harry bristled.  
  
“I don’t know, I  _might_ be!” Harry jutted his jaw out and glared at Malfoy. “Just because you think I might be a bad one…”  
  
“I think you’re not willing to defend your reputation,” Malfoy breathed, and he looked again at Harry’s toes as if they might tell him something, then ran an insulting gaze up his face to his mouth. “Do you think I believe you when you tell me that you just don’t have a lot of experience? You’re the Savior. People are falling over themselves to date you.”  
  
“That’s not—”  
  
“Maybe not boys,” Malfoy continued thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s one reason you don’t know if you’re gay, because you’ve held yourself back from experimenting with them.”  
  
“I never even  _thought_ of it until you cast that stupid spell!” Harry exclaimed. It was hard not to shout.  
  
“Ah, yes,” said Malfoy, and nodded. “Held back by the attitudes of your Muggle family. Right?”  
  
His eyes gleamed a challenge, and Harry leaned forwards and answered it before he thought about what he was doing. At least he wasn’t punching Malfoy in the stomach or throwing him on the ground this time.  
  
Malfoy gasped as Harry’s tongue found its way past his lips, then grunted. Harry immediately tried to pull back, but Malfoy, contrary idiot that he was, had his hands on Harry’s hips, and he was leaning on him now, making Harry sway. There was nothing behind him to hold onto, except the chair. He tried to grab hold of it, and they both fell to the floor with a crash.  
  
Harry worried for a moment that it would be like their fights had been, but Malfoy was reaching for him eagerly, and Harry didn’t feel Hogwarts trying to trap them. He gave in to the urge to run his hands up and down Malfoy’s sides the way Malfoy was doing with him, finding unexpected ticklish spots that made Malfoy leap and gasp again. Then he found the slender ridges of his ribs, and traced those, hesitantly.  
  
He wondered if a girl’s would feel different, more exciting. Once again, he didn’t really know.  
  
But his head was whirling, and his doubts melting away under the determined kiss Malfoy was giving him. His tongue was thicker and warmer than Harry remembered it, probing into Harry’s mouth at every other second, and then darting out again and touching his lips. Harry thought vaguely that this kiss was wet, too, and maybe he would always describe kisses that way, but the important thing, the  _important_ thing, was that he could feel his head whirling around and the feel of his stomach dropping all the way down to his toes.  
  
And the kiss, well, the kiss was good, too.  
  
They finally pulled back, and Malfoy lay there, panting, and looked up at him. Harry looked back. He wondered what he was supposed to say. Malfoy was the one who had found most of the words in this little meeting.  
  
“Well,” said Malfoy, expansively, at last.  
  
It seemed he wasn’t going to find them, either. Harry reached out and hesitantly took Malfoy’s hand. Malfoy jumped as if that had honestly shocked him, but didn’t try to pull back.  
  
There was a small click. Looking over his shoulder, Harry saw the door was open.  
  
He sat up, but didn’t pull his hand free. Malfoy followed him, his gaze questioning, looking Harry up and down again until Harry didn’t know his next move.  
  
Harry took a deep breath and nodded. “I think we’re going to try to be friends. And try—kissing. I don’t know if we’re ready for dating yet.”  
  
There. He had found some words. It was up to Malfoy to react to them.  
  
*  
  
 _What, ashamed of me?_  
  
But Draco held back the taunt. It was surprisingly easy, given everything else that had passed between them.   
  
Potter was unsure. Draco could see that much. There was none of the arrogant confidence that Draco found so off-putting. And Draco had to admit that he wasn’t ready to walk down the streets of Hogsmeade holding hands, either.  
  
But he  _was_ ready to see where this led. If he and Potter could stop teasing each other and take some emotion out in kisses instead of fighting, it was worth it.  
  
“We’ll do that,” he said. “ _Try_.”  
  
Potter nodded firmly, eyes on his. Then he reached out and touched Draco on the cheek, one sweeping movement, before he ran to the door.  
  
“I still don’t know if I’m gay,” he tossed over his shoulder.  
  
“I don’t know if I am, either,” Draco said, and smiled wryly at the startled look Potter gave him, before the determined one came back.  
  
“Then we’ll find out together,” Potter said, and marched off down the corridor.  
  
Draco sat slowly back. His mind went to his father—for the first time in months, without anger and bitterness. He was remembering something his father had said one day when talking to him about marriage, about what Draco could expect from it and the kind of marriage that his mother and father had.  
  
“You should beware of love, rather than desiring it,” Father had said, looking out the window instead of at Draco. “You know that a dove is its symbol?”  
  
Draco had nodded, looking up at his father, wondering what was coming next.  
  
“Well,” said Father. “In the case of any emotion stronger than desire, that dove often has razor claws. Remember it.”  
  
Draco hadn’t been able to bear the thought of one dream falling apart, though. He had taken a deep breath, and asked, “Is that what you did with Mother? Decide not to love her?”  
  
Father was silent long enough that Draco had cringed, expecting to be punished for his insolence. But instead, Father had taken a breath, and another, and touched Draco’s shoulder.  
  
“No,” he’d said. “I could bear the claws.”  
  
Draco closed his eyes now. Who knew if he and Potter would even have something long-lasting, never mind marriage.  
  
But he thought he could bear those claws, too, if the dove turned out to have them.  
  
 **The End**.


End file.
